


The Glass Desert

by Alunissage



Category: Original Work
Genre: 18+, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Adventure & Romance, Dark Fantasy, Fantasy, Forced Sex, M/M, Master/Slave, Monsters, Mythical Beings & Creatures, NSFW, Original Mythology, POV Multiple, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Some Humor, Some Real Shady Business, Violence, plot heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28498164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alunissage/pseuds/Alunissage
Summary: The land of Carran is a harsh, unforgiving place. Sand and rock for miles, filled with dangerous beings, both inhuman and human alike. It is a feeding ground for misery.Traveling merchant and snake oil salesman, Ashelm Dorrath, has always called it home. He’s used to the dirty and the crooked, the poor and the hapless. Revels in the chaos and the unpredictability of it all. That is, until he comes face to face with a peculiar slave boy, with hair white as the snow he’s only heard of in stories and eyes a burning amber. With the slave comes a mystery, one that beckons him forth. His entire life is thrown into shambles, and it’s up to him to piece it all back together.If, that is, he doesn’t get himself killed first.
Relationships: Ashelm/Namid, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 22
Kudos: 44





	1. Chains of Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alternative version of this story will soon be available on Royal Road under the same name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Warnings: Aphrodisiacs, prostitution, noncon elements and strong language.

╭─────────╮

☆ - 𝓐𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓵𝓶 - ☆

╰─────────╯

  
The city of Junnith was, in all honesty, no different than any other in the land of Carran. Short, stout buildings carved of smooth sandstone and windows bracketed by cloth for the poor and glass for the rich. What made it unique was the natural well of spring water that burst from the craigy earth in the center of the town square, cool and pure, the essence of all life. Children splashed about it, animals and travelers drank happily from its depths, and performers circled the space to con passerbys out of their hard earned money. The market flocked around it, though it was already midday and hotter than the pits of hell, and there was no shortage of intrigue to be found.

Ashelm leaned against the edge of the marble wall that separated the precious water from the muddy ground, hands dipped low into the cool liquid to refill his water skin. He was travel-worn and weary, sore from the saddle of his horse. That always earned him odd looks he did not enjoy, for horses were rare and hard to keep in Carran. His was a lean, tall stallion, with a dark coat suitable for protection against the blazing sun and muscles strong enough to pull a cart along if necessary. One he would prefer not be stolen by miscreants, which was why he kept a close eye on him as he bent down to lap at the clear water. When the horse drank his fill, Ashelm ushered him along, past the keen eyes of those who lurked just beyond the shadows of the nearby buildings.

Junnith’s marketplace was packed to the brim with wares of every type. Bolts of cloth and the latest fashion for those who cared, glittery jewels and golden chains that would look oh-so lovely around any person’s throat or wrist. The thick scent of freshly baked goods and smoked meats thickened the air in a haze, but none of it caught his eye. He took a familiar path through the busy market, horse bored at his side, for the creature was unsettled by very little.

A narrow space between two vendors, only just wide enough for his horse, was where he stopped. He spotted his customer long before the man arrived—an older, wiry fellow, gray hair tied in a long braid.

“Have ya got it?” His voice was rough, a bed nails on a sandstone floor.

Ashelm withdrew a small pouch from beneath his cloak. “You doubt me. I always have what I say I will.” He held the pouch out and, right as the man prepared to grab it, pulled it away at the last minute. With a cough, he held out his hand.

The old man narrowed his eyes, but exchanged a large handful of gold coins for the small pouch. Eyes lit up, mouth spread in an ugly grin. “Pleasure doin’ business with ya.”

“And you as well,” he replied, barely a half-truth, but ever one for polite appearances.

With business completed, he continued down the narrow path and took a turn, the sound of hooves almost too loud on the hard-packed sand, Ashelm found the young stable hand where he always did, tucked between two square buildings. Covered in grime and hay, but with that crooked-toothed smile.

“Good evening, sir! You haven’t been around for ages, missed seeing you around actually,” the young lad piped up, ever and always one for conversation. He took the reins of Ashelm’s horse without having to be told—an admirable trait. Barely thirteen summers and he already had a better personality than most men. “Your horse looks mighty healthy, as always. I’ll watch after him.”

The stable was, in reality, nothing more than the alley between two buildings with stone slabs to separate the individual stalls and heavy cloth to block out the sun. Not the nicest he’d ever seen, but the stable boy always did good work.

Ashelm smiled, small but polite. “Thank you, Grisham. A little extra if you have him cleaned and fed,” he said, digging a handful of silver coins from the leather pouch at his belt. He dropped them into the boy’s awaiting hands.

Grisham’s face never failed to light up with wonder. No wonder, no one else likely paid him anything extra at all, just ordered him about. “Oh, thank you! I’ll make sure he’s spotless.”

“Say hello to your sister for me,” he called over his shoulder and continued down the alleyway, until he found precisely what he was looking for.

_Luvika’s Embrace._

No matter how many times Ashelm read the wooden sign nailed to the alleyway door without flashiness or expertise, he would never cease to snort in amusement. To invoke the goddess of love and fertility’s name, all for the sake of what was essentially a glorified whorehouse, seemed a bit crass. Even for a degenerate urchin such as himself, who did not believe in the gods and goddesses of old. Never mind that it was the best spot for business of a sexual nature. No other place in all of Junnith, let alone Carran, had miraculously obedient whores, strong booze that could kill a horse or dangerously cheap prices for weary pockets. He knew firsthand what a fine establishment it was. Here, in this worn out hovel, the whores were at least treated better than cattle. Branded, pierced and purchased from the shadow market like all the others, certainly, but well fed and only beaten when necessary.

The door creaked, a sound like a half-dead crow, as Ashelm pushed it inward and stepped inside. The building was constructed of smooth stone. Wood was a resource used in moderation, in this wasteland of sandy emptiness, used mostly for doors, signs and some furniture, as opposed to the entire building. It was a small room, no bigger than would fit a handful of people. A stone counter directly across the door, curtained doorways on both the left and right.

A very tall, broad woman stood behind the counter today, her dark hair braided haphazardly over her shoulder. One elbow on the table top, her cheek rested upon it, as she turned the pages of a book. Her eyes never left the page. “Welcome back, Ashelm. Been a while since you stopped by. Business trip?” Her tone was not at all friendly. Dull, bored.

He knew she was interested nonetheless. That was simply how she spoke. “You sound as excited as ever, Serin. I suppose you could call it a business trip, if you feel so inclined. I was up north,” he said.

“Up north? Whatever for?” That, at least, caught Serin’s attention enough to bring her gaze up. “It’s colder than hell up there during this season.”

Ashelm’s lips twitched. “Following a trail. Can’t say much more than that.” No one would have his tongue if he did, but it was business best kept to himself. “I can say that I’m in need of a nice, long shag. Haven’t had one in far too long. Any boys available?”

“For once, we’re completely booked. There’s a caravan in town, so they’ve been busy. Unlike most foreigners, they don’t seem to care if they’re bedding a man or woman as long as they’re clean,” she said, but she bit her lip as she spoke. “You’re welcome to have a few drinks and wait, but I can’t say any will be free before moonrise.”

Bad news, indeed. Ashelm could use a chance to unwind after saddling a horse for a fortnight. “None at all, then? That’s a right shame.”

Almost as if the words were reluctant to fill the air, she gave a thoughtful, “Well, there is _one_ boy who isn’t occupied, but I wouldn’t want to recommend him to a loyal client like you. He’s...got a bit of an attitude, he does. Nasty boy. Bit his last client right on their pride. Had to give him a lashing after that and he’s been better behaved. Can’t promise he’ll stay that way.”

Right on their pride? He whistled lowly. “Sounds feisty,” he grinned. “Is he new?”

“New as can be. Probably hadn’t been a slave for long before Fiannick purchased him. According to him, he just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to snatch up such a rare one. Not a clue where he came from. Quite the odd looker.”

Ashelm couldn’t lie. His interest was certainly piqued. “I do love a bit of oddity and feistiness. I’ll have him, if you’d please.”

A raised eyebrow told him she did not approve of his hasty decision. “Well, if you’re certain. Don’t say I didn’t warn you if he bites. Your usual room is free, so head on up. I’ll send him in.”

“Have a hot meal and drink brought up as well,” he added with a half-smile. There was very little that frightened him, same as his horse. A slave boy with a penchant for sinking his teeth into the delicate flesh of a man’s most tender part could not be included on that list. Pain was nothing to fear nor was rebellion. All natural parts of life. Sweet smoke met his nose as he ducked beneath a curtain of fine, spotless silk into the doorway, up a staggered flight of stone stairs. The dim lighting came from flickering candles placed atop glistening glass plates in the small spaces carved along the stairwell’s walls. As he ascended, the temperature did not change, and sweat pooled along the small of his back. The smoke thickened into a hazy mist, clouded his lungs and mind in blissful calm.

One last curtain pushed aside and he came to stand in a large circular room, better lit by a chandelier of dripping wax. The floor laiden with plush pillows and blankets, haphazardly strewn about, in colors of vivid reds and luxurious golds. Faint noises could be heard, off the distance behind many wooden doors.

A pair of working boys were buried in the middle, pressed flush against one another, beneath a flimsy sheet of transparent cloth. A dark-haired youth who gave him no more than a sideways glance and a brunette splayed across his chest who didn’t so much as look up at the intrusion. Beside them sat a client; he was a round, jovial man who seemed deep in conversation. A tale of supposed adventure that the old man found riveting, but the boys were disinterested in, if the looks on their faces were anything to judge by. They were, as far as could be seen, the only ones currently present in the public space.

The room Ashelm preferred was located behind a heavy door on the left most side of the room. It was not much. A bed of many quilts and pillows, the floor softened by carpet, a table and some chairs. A window overlooked the busy market street, blocked only by colorful curtains. He stepped in, closed the door behind himself, and stretched the sore muscles of his shoulders. They screamed dull pain in protest. Too long of a trip, but it had been necessary to make haste before the winter storms picked up. As he unfastened the cloak from around his shoulders and hung it on the back of a nearby chair, he heard the click of the door. 

A tall slave girl guided a much smaller boy alongside herself. A pretty young thing, _indeed_ , who stumbled as he was unceremoniously pushed inside. She left them alone with a courteous bow.

Dressed in no more than thin, satin cloth along his waist that left very little to the imagination, wrists and ankles laden with golden jewelry that jingled as he moved and accented his pale, peachy skin. His body was on the smaller side for a man, delicate and almost feminine. A round face that would have been nothing short of enchanting, if it were not for the scowl that twisted the fine features into a mockery of their natural beauty. Even his wispy, unusual white hair could not hide the nasty expression, no matter how bizarre it was to see such a pale color in Carran.

Ashelm expected a bit of sass, from what Serin told him of the slave. A cheeky bite to his words, a hiss or growl. Clearly, the boy also had no need for niceties or politeness.

For many seconds, they eyed one another in consideration. Neither moved an inch.

“Ah, so you are the infamous cock-biter,” Ashelm broke the silence with words spoken through a huff of laughter. “Quite a bit prettier than I imagined you’d be.”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” the words were snarled immediately with no hesitation, as the little bedwarmer backed himself up against the door. Ready to flee at a moment’s notice from the way his hand stayed put on the doorknob and his entire body tensed for flight. Or perhaps fight.

Ah, how amusing. Nothing quite like a bedwarmer with an attitude. “Well, yes, that’s what I came here hoping you would do.”

“I’ll cut off your cock if you try,” the bedwarmer hissed, face redder than the wine Ashelm was particularly fond of. “I do not care how many times you use your whip to hurt me.”

The more he spoke, the easier it became for Ashelm to hear that his words dripped with a peculiar accent. Too light and lilting to be a native speaker of any Carran dialects, but he could not place his finger on the region. Not northern, certainly. Perhaps eastern? He pushed aside the thought for now.

There was little joy in punishing a slave, at least for him. Some would find it fun to beat respect into the body of another, but he preferred not to take such a violent course of action outside of work. He saw enough blood and death as it was. “My, my. What a nasty tongue you have. So very rude,” he chuckled, patted the whip that was neatly stored on his hip. “Worry not, I have no intention of whipping you. This is for defense only. Why not sit with me? You may have a bit of bread and cheese when the servant comes. Or wine, if you’d prefer it.”

That piqued the bedwarmer’s interest, though his hackles did not lower. He eyed Ashelm through a sharp, narrow gaze, and stayed put exactly where he stood. “Why?”

Ashelm sat, unlacing the tight knots of his boots, and looked up. He knew exactly what the boy was asking and doubted very much that his guess was wrong. Dropping his shoes down to the floor below, he pulled his legs up into the chair with him, thankful he was not too tall to do so. Despite knowing what the boy meant, he said, “Why what?”

“Why aren’t you trying to fuck me?”

“Would you stick your hand in a starving serpent’s mouth? I think not.” Sure, it could be fun when his partner was into that. Some boys liked to be treated rough. “If you really don’t want it, then oh well. I’ll simply send you away and wait for my usual boy.” He stretched in his chair, until the muscles of his back popped, and relaxed once more.

To his shock, the white-haired boy reached his arms out and barked, “No!” He caught himself, brought his arms back to wrap around his own small body. “Don’t send me away. Please. The lady—Madame Serin—she’ll have me caged.”

_Caged_. Far worse than a whipping. It was truly barbaric to trap a slave within metal bars out in the sun without food or drink, to be fucked by whoever happened to walk by. An old punishment, but that made it no less common.

Ashelm’s pity only extended so far. He was tired, sore, and in need of a boy who would show him a good time. The money he owed to stay here was not spent on being a kind, charitable soul. “Listen, boy—”

“Namid,” the bedwarmer blurted, pale cheeks pink as roses.

He paused. “Listen, Namid. I understand you don’t want to be fucked. That’s fine. But this is, as you are aware, a brothel. And I am a customer. I came here to relax and bed a pretty boy, not be a hero.”

Namid paled further, if that was possible. Any paler and he would have resembled a ghost more than a man. “Please,” his voice dropped down to a whisper. “Please, I’ll—I’ll… I’ll do anything else. Even...suck your cock, if that would be enough for you. Just don’t send me away.”

His eyebrows rose to his hairline. Now _that_ was an offer he didn’t expect, not from this mouthy, closed off bedwarmer. It made him laugh, low and genuine, as he stood up from his seat. The floor was rough beneath his bare feet. “Ah, nice of you to offer, but I believe you have a reputation of biting and I would like to keep myself intact.”

“I don’t care about being whipped, but I can’t stand being caged. Please,” Namid insisted, hands gripped tightly at his own arms, nails digging harshly into skin.

What a world to live in, where it was Ashelm’s own treacherous mind that betrayed him. He gave a heavy sigh and shook his head. There was no reason he should help this bedwarmer, this very strange _Namid,_ other than the fact that he was attractive. Ah, but he was a bit of a sucker for a pretty face, and pretty was exactly what Namid was. “Fine, I suppose I’ll allow you to stay. You can keep me company with your conversation, if not with your body.”

Suspicion lit up those warm amber eyes, but there was curiosity. The downfall of even the smartest of men. “I find it difficult to believe you won’t fuck me anyway.”

“Believe what you’d like, but I assure you I have no intentions of fucking you like a hound in heat.” Ashelm gestured to the bed. “Have a seat, at least. You’ll block the servants when they come with my meal.”

That lovely face scrunched up in revulsion, but he gingerly did as he was told. Perched on the edge as if the bed itself may cause him harm. “Must you be so crass?”

“Yes, I must be. Must you be such a prude?”

“I am _not_ a prude,” came the indignant words. “I have _standards._ Unlike you and the other men here, who’ll stick their cocks in anything that walks by!”

Ashelm’s temper was not short, but even had his limits. “I would suggest you mind your tongue, Namid. I’m sure you’re aware that not many are as kind and unbothered but your disobedience as I am. It is a quick way to lose that tongue, if you’re not careful.”

The bristles of the bedwarmer took more than a moment to flatten. He reminded Ashelm very much of a sand porcupine with their jagged quills and a short tempers. Truly, he must not have been a good conversationalist, for he let the room fall into silence.

What a mess.

A knock on the door saved them both from too long of an awkward silence. Ashelm would, at least, make good use of the bedwarmer. Leaned back in his seat with a smirk and propped his feet up on a nearby ottoman. “Be a dear and fetch that, would you?”

Namid shot him a vicious glare. He complied, however, and rose from the bed to open the door. The same girl from earlier now stood with a tray in hand, which he took from her, as she bowed and closed the door once more. With a grimace, Namid set the tray on the table between the bed and chair, looking as disgusted by a bit of bread and cheese as one might a corpse.

“Now, now, Namid. Stop making such a nasty face,” Ashelm chided and reached for the bottle of enticing red liquid, popping the cork and poured generous glass. “Here, have a drink. Maybe a bit of alcohol will turn you sweet.”

“I am not sweet.” Still, he accepted the drink without much fuss, and downed half the glass in under a minute. Yet as he slowed, he stopped, and coughed. Spat the remainder of the drink in his mouth out, onto the spotless rug, and wiped his mouth upon his bare arm. “Ugh, this is _vile!_ What wine tastes so foul?”

_Foul._

Ashelm stepped closer, grabbed the glass from the boy, and gave it a whiff.

“That was uncalled for! And you call _me_ rude,” huffed the bedwarmer, arms crossed over his slender chest. “What, exactly, is your problem?”

Ashelm ignored him. Covered up by the cloying smoke within the air, the subtle smell, comparable to that of bitter melon. _I know this smell._ All too familiar. After all, he often sold the substance for a pretty pittance. _Vittan oil._ A powerful aphrodisiac, harvested from the rare vittan flowers of the northern desert. The oil was dangerous for its potency. It rendered a victim unable to think or feel beyond their body’s need for pleasure. Only a few drops could turn a man weak at the knees. Time would be enough to work it out of a person’s system, but not without unbearable pain and discomfort.

The glass he sat carefully back down on the table, the sound against the wood like an act of finality. Someone tainted the wine. Perhaps it was meant for another, but that did not change the fact that it was intentionally sabotaged. There was something amiss, certainly, but what of it? Why poison a bottle of wine with a substance meant to induce a frenzy of sex? If there was a greater purpose behind it, then why not be more careful with the bottle in question? Unless it was meant for him, specifically, which only garnered more questions than answers.

“Are you even listening to me?” Namid’s voice cut through his thoughts, soft and unaware. “You aren’t, are you? Zoning out while someone else is speaking. Typical of a stuck up—”

“Do you feel strange?” He cut right to the chase, no bearing around the bush. Ignored the flinch that came as he put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Fuzzy, hot? Anything?”

“Of course I feel hot,” snapped Namid. “It’s always hot in this goddess-forsaken place.”

_Keep calm. Panic induces more panic._ Ashelm couldn’t show any if he wished to keep the man calm and unworried. There was no telling how much oil was in the wine. It smelled strongly, so even a single drop could be detectable to the right nose. He cursed himself for not noticing sooner. If it was only a little, then they would have some time before it kicked in. If not...well, they would cross that bridge when they got there.

“I do feel a bit fuzzy,” Namid added slowly, an afterthought, as he gazed upward. His eyes were wide, eyebrows pinched together, button nose scrunched up like a baby tumble rabbit. “A little...lightheaded. What’s...going on?”

“Nothing,” the lie slipped easily from Ashelm’s lips. When in doubt, keep people calm. “The wine is a bit strong, is all. I didn’t want you drinking it so fast.”

“Oh. That’s…considerate of you.” The hostility was fast fading into docility, a gentleness that he didn’t possess otherwise. His hands were on Ashelm’s shoulders now. Unconsciously, instinctively, seeking out touch and warmth. His words were not slurred—not yet—but whatever filters lay within his brain dissipated. “I never did get your name. What is it?”

This place was not safe. Not for Ashelm nor for the bedwarmer. He needed a plan and fast. “It’s Ashelm,” he answered with a grin. “Tell me, Namid, how would you like to leave this place and never return?”

“I’d love to. I cannot, though. Madame Serin owns me.” The little body leaned forward, ever closer, until there was the touch of his forehead on Ashelm’s chest. “She bought me and she owns me.”

A second lie, larger than the first, would be the start to their plan for escape. If he could convince the bedwarmer to leave, everything else could be handled. “Serin owes me a big favor and she won’t mind if I take you with me. Would you like that, Namid? To come with me?”

“Go...with you? To...where?” Through the cracks of the oil’s effect, Namid was beginning to slip. His eyelids drooped, the words beginning to blend together like paint on a canvas.

From beyond the door, there came footsteps. Not the gentle patter of the working boys or girls, but heavy ones. Thick boots on stone reverberated through the wooden door, the only sound apart from their own voices. It was unnervingly silent.

Ashelm peeled himself away, snagged a wooden chair, and locked it beneath the handle of the door. It wouldn’t stop them for long. He grabbed hold of Namid by his shoulders. “Namid, listen to me. Put your arms and legs around me.”

Face flushed, body limp, Namid stared up at him and shook his head sluggishly. “No,” he mumbled. “Can’t. Don’t...wanna...be caged. I hate it...hate it...”

“You won’t be, I swear it to you.” The doorknob rattled, clicked endlessly around itself, and Ashelm felt the urgency boil in his blood. “Namid, I promise nothing will happen to you.”

“Pinky promise?” A small finger was held up to him, the boy’s pale pinky.

Ashelm had never heard of such a thing, but he went along with it. “Pinky promise,” he agreed, holding the offered pinky between his middle and forefinger. At last, he was able to wrangle Namid’s limbs around himself, so that they were pressed chest to chest. He weighed next to nothing compared to the heavy merchandise he was accustomed to toting around. A small noise came from him—Ashelm could feel a hardness digging into his stomach—and he shushed the boy. Opened the window outward with one hand while he supported the boy with the other beneath his bottom. There was no time to lace up his boots, but he did pause to grab his cloak, tossed over his shoulder. A small loss.

The window was not too far off the ground, close enough to jump even with a second body in his arms. A prayer to a goddess he did not believe in was sent skyward, then with a deep breath, Ashelm stepped onto the ledge. It burned beneath his bare skin. He endured the pain and brought his second foot up to join.

“Ashelm,” the soft voice whined, hands gripped tight to the back of his shirt.

In one swift movement, Ashelm jumped, bracing his knees for the impact. He hit the ground with a thud, felt the landing in his joints, but he was already moving.

“ _Ashelm._ Please—” Too loud, the words bounced off the alleyway walls.

“ _Hush_ ,” he snapped, but it was too late.

There came a crash from inside the room, followed by voices. Bad luck reared its ugly head as, just that, the head of a man poked out of the window. A man with a wiry beard and beady eyes. “He’s there, in the alley! He’s got the boy!”

_The boy?_

No time to dwell on the information—Ashelm was already on the move, down the alley toward the stable boy. Grisham was there, young face clouded with confusion.

“I need a favor,” he told the stable boy. “There are men behind me—they’re going to ask you where I went. Send them on a wild goose chase. I’ll owe you.”

Confused or not, determination was set across his face. No questions asked. “You can trust me, sir. Your horse is toward the back—hurry and get him, I’ll keep a lookout.”

“You have my thanks.” Ashelm gave it to so few people, but Grisham deserved it and more. He would remember to sneak back sometime and repay the boy for his loyalty. Indeed, as he’d been told, his stallion was toward the back near the other side of the alleyway. Now came the tricky part. To maneuver Namid onto the horse’s back would not be an easy task. He didn’t seem to want to let go, arms and legs latched tight. “Namid, you need to let go for me. I need to lift you up.”

“No, no—” Not real rejection. By now, the words were nothing but babbling. Nothing coherent.

The yelling grew closer, the footsteps like marching horses. Ashelm ducked behind the wall of his horse’s stall, down out of sight, with the boy curled in his arms. Namid, for one, took their closeness as a chance to rut against his abdomen. Breath heavy in his ear, soft noises and meaningless sounds. He let him, if only to distract him and keep him somewhat quiet.

Someone approached Grisham—no, multiple people. Several pairs of feet.

“Boy, did you see a man run by? Dark hair, scar on his cheek?” A man’s voice, the same man from the window, barked.

“He went that way, down toward the town square,” Grisham answered. “But you better hurry, he ran straight by.”

Namid was growing restless, but the snuffle of the horses and donkeys helped cover his little noises. At least until the footsteps faded in the far direction.

Ashelm let out a slow breath he’d been holding. There wasn’t time to get Namid to agree to anything now—he did the only thing he could think of. Lowered his hand between their bodies, all the way down to Namid’s groin, and palmed at his cloth-covered length. His mouth fell open on a soft moan, but his grip loosened, and that was all Ashelm needed. Detached the man from his body, placed him on the ground, and set to work. The saddle was hung on a hook in front of the stall, which he grabbed and began to latch into place. Grabbed the bags and hooked them to the edges of the saddle, quickly and efficiently, then knelt down to gather the man into his arms. Swung him up and into the saddle, followed not a moment later. He spurred the horse into motion, one arm around the boy to keep him steady.

The ride would not be pleasant, if the way Namid was writhing and panting against him was any indication. He wanted only one thing and, despite how attractive he may have been, there was no time for it.

Whatever happened, whatever was going on, Ashelm cursed himself sorely for getting himself involved in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had this story sitting on the back burner for a while, collecting dust. Then quarantine rolled around and I thought to myself, why not finish it? So I want to thank all you lovely readers for joining me of the first chapter of what will soon be a very long (and hopefully interesting) story!
> 
> Updates will be posted quickly for the first few chapters, then slow down to one chapter every week after that.
> 
> Until next time, have a lovely day!


	2. A Favor For A Favor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Warnings: Aphrodisiacs, mentions of prostitution, noncon elements, forced sexual acts and strong language.

╭─────────╮

☆ - 𝓐𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓵𝓶 - ☆

╰─────────╯

  
The ride, as expected, was not pleasant.

Two major hurdles made the trip next to unbearable. One, the need for Ashelm to constantly look over his shoulder for unwanted tag-alongs; and two, the whiny and overly aroused bedwarmer against his chest. Neither were pleasant, but the latter was far more irritating than he ever thought he would admit. Never in all his years of living, since discovering the life-changing bliss that was sex, did he imagine that he would say he didn’t want a pretty boy to try to mount him like a horny dog. Under any other circumstances, it would have been more than fine. Flattering even. These were not the actions of a man infatuated with him—it was the frenzy of a man lost in his own drug fueled mind. It did not bring him any sense of joy or satisfaction in his charming wiles.

Moreover, Junnith was not the place for public displays of affection of any sort, let alone sex. If any settlement was known for having prudish law enforcement, it was Junnith. People had been flogged in the town square for less than public indecency.

In the case that anyone managed to follow, Ashelm guided his horse carefully through a winding, nonsensical loop of roads and alleyways at a brisk but unhurried pace. Went this way and that, to shake off those who might still be on their tail. The sun high overhead, burning down upon them. Namid’s skin was far too light to handle the intensity of it, though he was thankfully covered well by Ashelm’s own cloak. They were safer now but not yet out of the fire. He needed to find refuge before nightfall and there was only one person in the town who might provide him aid.

“Please, please, _Ashelm,_ want you, want your—” Namid begged in that light, melodic voice. They were far enough from Luvika’s Embrace for him not to have to shush the boy out of fear they might be killed, but they were still in public and he slapped a hand over the boy’s mouth. Just in time as well, for his small body went tense as the movements of his hips slowed.

Ashelm felt wetness seep into his trousers and shirt. Namid’s own desperate movements drove him to his climax. Couldn’t deny that it heated something inside himself to know the boy came without so much as a hand. The little body went nearly lifeless, eyes closed and panting. He was covered by Ashelm’s cloak from head to toe, blocked from everyone else’s sight and that was a very small consolation to the problem.

_What a mess._ Literally and figuratively.

Passersby glanced their way. A young woman with a basket of fruit upon her head, an elderly man with a cane, and Ashelm felt his insides curl for an entirely different reason. He gave them a polite smile as they passed, then moved on, heart beating too fast in his chest.

“Be quiet, porcupine.” With all these people around, he didn’t quite know if it was a wise move to call the man by his name. Two words still echoed in his mind. _The boy_. They wanted to stop him from taking the bedwarmer alongside him, he was sure of that. Whatever was going on, it involved this bad-tempered slave. For now, _porcupine_ would do. Namid had the prickly attitude of one. He inhaled deeply, the scent of wet mud, distant smoke and _sex_ filled his lungs.

For a time, the boy was still. Satiated temporarily by his unexpected orgasm. Thankfully quiet, collapsed into Ashelm’s chest, and he held him close to keep him from falling.

What felt like ages passed. At long last, they arrived at their destination. A building no different than any others from the outside, but located at the town’s edge, where the structures were placed further apart from one another. He stopped his horse within the shade cast by the house, out of sight from the road, and dismounted less gracefully than he would have liked with the boy in his arms. One could only be grateful he landed on his feet. As he gathered Namid close to himself, he felt the soft press of lips against his neck and jaw, trying not to shudder from the unexpectedly pleasant sensation. Ashelm knocked on the wooden door.

Seconds passed. Then minutes. The door creaked open a bare crack, the shadow of a face peeked through. “What brings you here, Ashelm?”

“Trouble, as always,” he said and shifted the man in his sore arms. His muscles were starting to feel the pain of being stuck in the same position for too long. “I need a place to stay. You owe me.”

A favor for a favor. That was the most valuable currency of all in this world, to owe someone a favor. Dangerous currency, but well worth the risk, and Ashelm had many favors to ask for across the sands.

Silence, a long pause. The sound of a metal latch unclicking filled the air, then the door pulled inward. “Come in.”

Gratefully, Ashelm stepped inside and moved out of the way for the door to be closed once more. The room seemed smaller on the inside, filled to the brim with wooden crates and a variety of animal remains. Fangs in glass bottles on shelves that lined the walls, dried pelts hung from hooks on the walls and ceilings, the head of a three-eyed creature suspended forever in yellow-ish liquid. A horror show to some, nothing unusual to him. The man who made his living off these oddities was no less strange himself—shaved head, large hooped earrings hung from his ears, every inch of visible skin covered in inky markings.

“Should I ask who you’re hiding under that cloak?” The man spoke up, head turned to look over his shoulder so that his good eye focused on them. The other was gray, clouded. Useless. The skin around it pinkened and scarred.

Ashelm hummed. Here, he didn’t have to fear divulging too much of the truth. “You can ask, but I’m not even sure myself. As far as I’m aware, he’s a brothel bedwarmer. But someone in this town clearly wants a piece of him badly enough to chase me down.”

The man wrinkled his nose a bit. “How courteous of you to bring a troublesome whore into my house. Couldn’t bother to clean him up first?”

“That’s why I’m here, Raika. He’s been drugged with vittan oil. I need to borrow a room.” It was a favor he wasn’t happy to ask for, but there was no safer place within the town’s limits.

“You cashed in your favor to fuck a whore?”

“If you want to put it that way, yes. As soon as he’s coherent, we’re leaving.”

Raika fell silent, observing him with that one keen eye. A sigh left his lips. “Very well. Who am I to judge what you do with your favors? Upstairs, second room on the left. Try not to be too loud, if you could.”

Ashelm offered him no thanks—that wasn’t how their alliance worked—but gave a small nod. He headed through a curtained stairwell. Up to the room, which was far smaller than he would have liked, but at least free of boxes. The bed he placed Namid onto was a bit dusty, though otherwise suitable enough.

“You’ve been quiet. Are you still with me, porcupine?” He studied the boy’s face as he knelt on the bed, how it was flushed pink, and cupped it between his hands. Their gazes met and he was surprised to find a bit of clarity within the amber depths. Only a bit, but it didn’t put a stop to his begging.

“Please,” Namid whispered, hands shaking as they fisted in Ashelm’s shirt.

“Yes, yes, you’ll get what you need,” he murmured, hands reached for the cloth around his waist and untied the band. The satin cloth fell away without much hassle, bared Namid to the balmy night air. Little cock hard and at attention once more, tip glistening, a bead of slickness that trailed down to his smooth groin below. The fabric was soaked in cum and sweat. The smell of sex hit him hard, heady and rich. “I’ll make you feel so very good, little porcupine.”

Namid’s body was limp and pliant under Ashelm’s hands. There was no struggle. If anything, it was the opposite. Namid’s legs opened the moment hands touched his thighs, seeking relief, and his hands grasped the front of Ashelm’s shirt. “Ashelm,” he panted, the words slurred almost beyond recognition. “Please.”

“It’s alright now.” Without pause, Ashelm petted the boy's sides. No thought in this, no will—he could try to have some fun, at least, but a drugged partner was never the most pleasant. Certainly, the boy was beautiful. How could he not be, with such plump lips and a bit of softness on his belly and hips? The noises he made alone were enough to excite Ashelm’s cock throughout their entire journey, but that was all bodily instinct. “Poor, pretty boy. Look what they’ve done to you.”

One of Ashelm’s hands engulfed Namid’s cock entirely, skin hot and silky against his calloused palm. This touch, more than any words, soothed him best. His hips rocked with every upward stroke, mouth open on quiet breathy noises, hands glued to Ashelm’s shirt.

“That’s a good lad,” he praised, pressed his thumb over a prominent vein and sped up his touches. “Easy does it, now.”

Common under the effects of vittan oil, there was little warning when Namid reached his peak, added to how long he’d already been worked up for. A cry left his lips as his body tensed, drawn tight as a hunter’s bowstring, and he spilled hot seed across Ashelm’s hand. The sight of Namid’s flushed, blissful face and clouded eyes would forever fuel his deepest fantasies. Curls of white hair contrasted starkly against the red pillows, like the fluffiest of clouds during the spring season.

“Good boy. That must feel much better.” Ashelm knew the worst was yet to come—quite literally and figuratively—and did not slow his strokes. Used Namid’s own release to slick his movements. Long, tight curves of his wrist. “Come on, give us another.”

Namid keened, his entire body shuddering, and sobbed through a third release. He looked utterly debauched, toes curled against the sheets, the definition of pure lust. Even after three orgasms, his body wasn’t satisfied. Once more, his cock hardened, swollen and no doubt sore. Ashelm didn’t stop, though. He dug around the bedside for a small jar of oil and uncapped the bottle, the smell of sweetness hitting his nose, and he poured a generous amount into his palm. At least this oil had no nasty side effects. One finger ventured down to Namid’s fluttering entrance, rubbed gently against the relaxed muscle, and pushed deep inside. There was very little resistance, only a gasp and slight arch of the man’s hips.

“You’ve just been waiting so long for something to fill this greedy hole, haven’t you?”

A shaky moan met his words, the boy threw his head back against the pillows. Tired for sure, but still desperately seeking out more pleasure.

Ashelm crooked his finger, felt that magical bundle of nerves against his skin. “Ah, there it is,” he purred, rubbed the spot over and over again.

A cry left those plump lips, body shuddering beneath him, and his fourth climax washed over him.

He didn’t stop. Kept rubbing that bundle, thrusting his finger inside quickly.

Tears formed in Namid’s eyes, trailed down his cheeks. “No, no, no more—no more—” He begged for a different reason now, overstimulated and pushed to the limits of his own body

“Sh, porcupine. Just one more,” Ashelm soothed, his finger rough and unrelenting against Namid’s prostate. “One more and you can rest.”

A sob tore from his throat on the final, hardly a dribble arising from his softening cock. Covered in his own cum and sweat, limp and nearly lifeless, if it weren’t for his heavy breathing. His eyes stared upward at nothing, half-closed, hands falling onto the bed.

The room smelled so strongly of sex. Ashelm was hard as a rock in his trousers, in need of his own release, but he wouldn’t take it. Not now. A crook he may have been, yes, but a crook with some morals.

“You did so well,” he purred, wiped his hand clean on the sheets. “Rest now, lad.”

══════════════════

After Ashelm cleaned the boy and himself up, he covered the man in a light layer of quilts and left him to sleep. It was uncomfortable to wait for his own erection to die down, but he stayed within the washroom until it did so, and changed his ruined clothes shortly after. The drug would likely knock Namid out for some time, which gave him a chance to head downstairs and seek out Raika. As expected, he was knee deep in his work, filling glass jars with a thick, foul-smelling substance that would keep various animal parts from rotting over time.

He was neither surprised nor thrilled by the sudden company. “I think you should leave that whore here in the city, Ashelm. Trouble always has a way of finding you, but this time, you should not encourage it to follow.”

“He’s tiny,” Ashelm pointed out and took a seat atop a nearby crate, elbow on his knee. “A bit mouthy when he’s not drugged up, but I doubt he could do me harm.”

Raina’s glare was cold. “It’s not the boy I’m worried about and you know it. You wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t something amiss. Why didn’t you take him to an inn? Or better yet, why _did_ you take him away from the brothel in the first place?”

Ah, ever the observant detective. There was no deceiving that sharp eye, with words or tricks. With more trust than he bestowed upon most individuals, Ashelm recounted the events of the last hour or so, down to his thoughts on the tainted wine and the descriptions of his pursuers as far as he was aware. “So you see,” he said as he finished. “I do not believe leaving him here is the wisest decision.”

Raika seemed perturbed by the truth, his thin lips drawn in a tight frown. “This is more serious than you are letting on. Whoever that boy is—and why they want him—it is not for you to concern yourself with. I say this as your friend.” He set the jar in his hand down, turned and put his hands on Ashelm’s shoulders. “Leave him. I will call in a favor to have someone take him elsewhere, perhaps further into the desert. There are plenty of brothels. But do not make him your responsibility.”

A corner of his lips turned up. “Why, dear Raika. If I didn’t know better, I would say you almost sound worried about me,” he teased, then shook his head. “I won’t make him anyone else’s problem. They were out for blood when they saw that I had him. And I still can’t rule out the possibility that the wine was intended for me.”

Something dark and unpleasant swam in the dark eye that looked upon him. Raika’s hands were tight on his shoulders, but they soon loosened. He sighed. “I can’t stop you, if you’re really determined to take him. Where, exactly, do you plan on going when he wakes?”

“Somewhere far enough. I have another favor to ask of you, though.”

Those eyes narrowed. “You’ve used your favor.”

“I’ll owe you one.”

“Go on.” Raika gestured with one scarred hand.

“Dig up some information for me about the men who were after me. Ask around.” Ashelm preferred to dig up answers on his own without involving others, but he knew he would not be able to do so within Jannith without putting the bedwarmer at further risk. They needed to leave and staying would only put larger targets on their backs.

Another sigh, this one through the man’s nose. Raika took his own seat on top of an adjacent box. The room had no real furniture and hadn't for quite some time. “I’ll do what I can, but I make no promises. If it seems dicey, I won’t look very far. My skin is not worth yours. This is a riddle you’ll have to solve yourself.”

Ashelm expected nothing less, but this was a riddle that he would solve. Starting with the mystery that was Namid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! This chapter is a bit shorter, but the next one will more than make up for it. Thank you all so much for reading and I hope you enjoy this fictional journey.
> 
> Have a good day!


	3. Rumors in the Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Warnings: Nudity, talk of forced sexual acts, references to slavery/prostitution, strong language and illegal markets.

╭─────────╮

☆ - 𝓐𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓵𝓶 - ☆

╰─────────╯

  
Ashelm sat in a chair outside the bedwarmer’s temporary room, arms crossed over his chest and head tilted back against the wall. Half-dozing, half-thinking. Too many thoughts filled his head, unfinished musings and questions that possessed no answers within his grasp. He should have gone to bed—the hour was late enough that even Raika turned in to rest—but he was loath to admit that he was still on edge over his strange new companion. His skin crawled with the anxiety that something bad loomed above him, just out of sight. It lurked at the edges of his vision, taunted him with its presence and refused to be pushed aside. On the best of days, he didn’t sleep well. Now he has a better reason to keep his eyes open.

A sound in the quiet night stirred him. The subtle shuffle of bare feet on stone, from inside the room. _He’s awake._ With a deep exhale, he pushed himself to his feet, and stretched the sore muscles of his back. Rapped his knuckles gently against the door, but didn’t wait for an answer to open it. Inside, he found what he expected. Namid on his feet in the middle of the room, dressed in nothing at all, unless one counted the bands of jewelry on his arms.

“Where am I?” The words were rough, a voice broken by sleep. They were also, as to be expected, quite demanding. If he was concerned about his nudity, he didn’t show it.

Ashelm considered how to answer. Be truthful or mix in a little white lie? No, best to be honest. This wasn’t a business deal. At least not the kind he was used to. “My friend’s house, at the edge of town.” He stepped over to one of the many boxes piled throughout the room, lifted the lid to sort through its contents, and came up with a shirt. Not much else in the way of clothing. “Put this on. You’ll catch cold wearing nothing.”

Namid eyed the shirt like an animal would a knife, but he took it, and slipped it over his head. The fabric pooled around his small body, the neckline sat loosely around his shoulders. Better than nothing.

Ashelm would have to get him proper clothing soon. First, he had questions to ask. The drug could cause blackouts of memory, so to be certain where he needed to begin he asked, “How much do you remember?”

To his surprise, Namid met his gaze and those eyes were hard as metal. “All of it.”

A surprise, yes, but at least it saved Ashelm the trouble of having to summarize the day’s events for him. He didn’t stray from his place by the door, leaned back against the wood. “That’s a good memory you must have, but it’s better that you know, I believe.”

There was a dark shadow over Namid’s face, mouth twisted into something ugly. He took a step back toward the bed, sat down on it, though their gazes never broke away from one another. Anger sparked in those eyes like tiny flames at the edges of a fire pit. “I know you manhandled me while I was _drugged_.”

Far from the words he expected to hear, Ashelm found himself startled and paused to find his words. “I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. Vittan oil is best worked out of the system with a...hands-on approach, if you will. I’m sure you’re aware that I didn’t fuck you, even though I _could_ have, since you seem to think the worst of me.”

“I won’t thank you for not being a piece of shit,” muttered the bedwarmer. “Or sleep with you to reward you for your restraint.”

“I don’t expect you to. If I expected thanks for everything that I do, then I would never do anything at all.” The attitude of the other man was not annoying, but it was strangely endearing. He liked individuals with a bit of a sharp tongue. Made life more interesting. “So, do I have to ask what you’re hiding from me or will you offer the truth on your own?”

Amber eyes narrowed into glimmering slits. For a man small as could be, Namid held himself up well, no sign of backing down in attitude or body. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb. It’s not nearly as cute as your scathing remarks. If you remember what happened, then you know we were being chased. It was _you_ they were after. Not me. I was just an obstacle in their path. I’d like a bit of honesty. Did you know them?” There was likely a gentler way of phrasing it, a more subtle approach to the topic, but Ashelm didn’t do gentle or subtle. He could be charming when he needed to be. Now was not the time for that. It was a time for answers.

Namid didn’t seem quite as comfortable with himself as he had previously. Hugged himself awkwardly, whether because of his lack of proper clothing or the subject at hand. “I didn’t see their faces.”

“You heard their voices,” Ashelm pressed.

“They sounded fuzzy. I didn’t hear them that well.”

Ashelm’s gut screamed _lie_. He followed his intuition, for it rarely failed him. “I’ll give you one more chance to tell me the truth, Namid.” he dropped his voice down low, for all walls could have ears and he trusted none to keep secrets to themselves. “I may help you get to somewhere safe, but it all depends on you and your decisions.”

“Why bother saving me at all? You won’t get any rewards for it.” Dark, ugly words spoken in a half-sneer.

He stood up straight, stepped over to the bedwarmer, and leaned down far enough that they could meet eye to eye. “Life is not about _rewards._ It’s about risk, reason and profit. What are you willing to risk and for what reason will you risk it? What will risking it bring you? I risked my hide because I am not cruel enough to leave your fate in the hands of someone whose intentions are not clear to me. I expect to profit from it by not having your untimely and—so I assume—unjust death on my hands. A reward is given _freely_ and without _cost._ Profit is _earned_.”

Namid’s beauty, he realized quite quickly, would always be smothered by his nasty expressions. Didn’t matter if there was kohl lined around his striking eyes or how much gloss coated his plush lips. Scowls and sneers could make even the most handsome faces turn sour. He was silent for so long that Ashelm wondered if he’d truly been offended. Then he spoke, soft and reluctantly. “I don’t know who they are. That’s the truth. But...I might know why they’re here.”

Ashelm waited, but no explanation came. He lifted his eyebrows and made a _go on_ gesture with his hand.

“It is a very long story,” Namid mumbled under his breath, difficult to hear.

“Give me a brief rundown, then.”

A heavy sigh. “Fine. I ran away from my old master, back in my homeland far from here, but thugs caught me and sold me while I was traveling. I ended up in the brothel.”

That was information he soaked in carefully. One, it confirmed his suspicion that Namid was not from anywhere close by, and two, that he had not been free even there. If it was true, then it made some semblance of sense. Except for one tiny detail. “If your homeland is so far away, then why would your master waste the resources hunting you down? He could simply buy a new slave for half the price.”

A shuffling of feet against the floor, hands twiddling with thin fabric. “He holds grudges and he’s too prideful. Me running away—it is a personal insult. I doubt he wants me to return as his slave.”

That made a little more sense. The story was not too outlandish nor unbelievable. Yet there was a twinge in Ashelm’s stomach. A part of him, a whisper in the back of his mind, did not believe it. Namid didn’t look the part of a bedwarmer, aside from being pretty to look at. He didn’t even possess the branding mark of the brothel that owned him, often found on the hip or lower back. Supposedly, he had also been whipped for his misbehavior, but there were no scars to indicate so, which was an oddity for an ill-mannered individual. No scars, no marks, not a hair out of place. Well-fed, mouthy. Temperamental. None of the signs of a long-serving slave. The story made sense, but Namid didn’t fit into it.

The man shifted nervously under Ashelm’s gaze, eyes narrowed but flickering from one place to another. Hands clasped firmly together in his lap, knuckles white. He knew well enough that something about this tale wasn’t true, if any of it was. To force the truth out would do very little good when there was no trust between them. For now, Ashelm pushed aside his need to know more. Locked the suspicions away for another time, to be examined later on.

“A spiteful master. Well, no wonder those goons seemed to want my head on a pike,” Ashelm said at long last. He, better than Namid, could lie just as well. There was no need to inform the other man that he could see right through his falsities. It would cause unnecessary tension. Sooner or later, the truth would come out, and he was patient enough to wait for it. “Unfortunate for me that I am now involved in your mess. Unavoidable, I suppose, since I decided to take you with me.”

Namid picked at a loose strand on the bottom edge of his shirt. “What happens now, then? I don’t have any money to pay you to take me somewhere safe.”

“I’ll take favors over money.” Ashelm waved the man’s lack of monetary funds away with his hand. Favors were the most valuable form of currency in the world—they transcended even real funds and could buy things that even money could not. “You owe me exactly three favors and I’ll take you to a safe place. I can ask for them at any time, I can ask for anything, and you can’t say no. Sound like a deal, little porcupine?”

His nose scrunched up as he thought it through. It was an important decision: to accept help, yet to owe favors. Not to be taken lightly in the world below the surface of civilization. “Fine. Deal,” he mumbled after some time. His voice took on a particularly sour note. “Why porcupine?”

“Safer than using your name. You are quite porcupine-like. Small, cute, covered in quills. About ready to stab me at a moment’s notice.” The glare he received was well worth it. “We’ll leave before dawn. Until then, I’ll find you proper clothing and make preparations. Can I trust you to sit here and behave yourself?”

Namid scowled. “I am not a _child_. You do not need to lecture me. I know how to be polite.”

“We shall see about that.”

══════════════════

A few hours from dawn, Ashelm ensured that his dagger was sharp and his whip properly hooked to the loop on his hip, double checked the bindings that held his bags to his horse’s flank. Everything was in order, as well as it could be. Food packed, water skin filled, weapons in place. Ready for what could be a long journey. Longer still, with the unhappy and troublesome man by his side. Dressed now in the same oversized white shirt, in addition to a pair of slightly too small gray trousers and a cloak to protect his delicately pale skin from the sun and cold, and with those bands of gold stored in a bag hidden from sight. No need to flaunt such valuables for all to see. None of his clothing matched in size or fit him correctly, but there would be no time to purchase better replacements until they reached the next town to the west.

“Must we ride the same horse?” Namid’s voice was laced with disgust, his hand on the horse’s flank. Patted soothing motions along the creature’s dark coat.

Ashelm tightened a loose strap and eyed him over the horse’s side. “I have only one horse, porcupine, and that brings me enough trouble as it is. Two would be a death sentence, if I could somehow find a second one to purchase for less than the cost of a noble’s manor.” He put one foot up in the stirrup and hopped up, swinging his leg over the saddle. His height allowed him to do so quite easily, even with the height of the horse.

“Why are horses so expensive? They’re everywhere back home. They cost a bit, but all travelers have at least one or more.” Namid hesitated to take the hand offered to him, as if it might bite him, but did so after a moment. Allowed Ashelm to pull him up, so that he could sit behind him.

The man was sat awkwardly behind Ashelm, doing his best not to make contact with their bodies, and that wouldn’t do. “Because horses are not suitable for the desert. Very few of them fare well and those that do are difficult to come by.” He turned over his shoulder and reached behind himself to take one of Namid’s hands.

A squeak sounded. “What are you _doing?_ ”

“You can’t ride without touching me, porcupine. You’ll fall right off and break your bones.” That would make the entire ordeal more difficult and complicated than it needed to be. _If_ he survived a fall from a moving stallion’s back. “I won’t bite. Unless you want me to.”

“Ugh, you’re _disgusting,_ ” he muttered, but his arms gingerly made their way around Ashelm’s waist. Secure, though not too tight.

“I believe the word you’re looking for is _charming_. And yes, yes I am.” No matter the amount of hostility and wariness he received from the man, he couldn’t help but to tease him. The journey was already bound to be a long one—why make it even more tiresome with a poor attitude?

If only he knew how poor Namid’s attitude could really get.

══════════════════

They made it out of the city with no issues. At night, the desert was cold and silent. Only the sounds of the wind sifting through the sandy dunes, the deafened steps of horse hooves over rocky ground. A sliver of moon hung low in the sky, lazy wisps of clouds that did not signal rain nor snow, for the first was rare and the second near impossible. No one crossed their path as they traveled the rough, winding roads, as was expected. Many people did not travel the desert at this hour—dusk was the most popular time of day, for it was cooler but not as cold as the night wind. They did not have the luxury of doing so. Their travels would be solely in the dead of night, their rest in the day. It would be more efficient, pose less risk to themselves being caught by unwanted assailants.

It was after roughly a couple hours into the trip when Namid began to get, in Ashelm’s humble opinion, fussy and irritable.

“Can we please stop for a bit?” Namid groaned for what felt like the hundredth time since they left Junnith. “My back hurts. I want to stretch my legs.”

Ashelm buried down the urge to snap an unkind remark about him being too much of a delicate flower for travel. He took a deep breath, held the reins tightly in his hands, and didn’t once glance behind himself. “It’s nighttime, porcupine, on an empty road in the middle of the desert. I would prefer not to stop and risk our hides unless absolutely necessary.”

Namid made another noise of displeasure, a groan and a whine all rolled into one. For a man who worked as a bedwarmer and held as a slave, he had awfully high opinions of his own wants and so-called needs. “What is the harm in stopping for a few minutes? We’ll make it to the next town around the same time. No one else is out here.”

“Need I remind you that just because you see no one around, doesn’t mean there _is_ no one around?” The desert was one endless trap. Grains of sand consumed the blood, bone, and souls of those who perished upon it. At the hands of the wildlife, of the nature goddess Fanu herself, and humans or unknown creatures who would do anything to survive. “You’re already a walking target. I’m not putting a larger one on our backs for a tiny break.”

“But my back _hurts_ ,” came a quiet whine. “I haven’t ridden a horse in years. My legs are sore.”

“The next town is only a short distance away. It’s just there, on the horizon,” he pointed out, to the dark outline of tall silhouettes in the distance against the navy blue sky. “We’ll be there barely before sunrise.” It wasn’t a long journey by any means. Compared to the length of time it would take to reach other settlements, this was a casual stroll. On a normal day, he didn’t take any breaks on such a short trip, and often opted to wait until he reached the next town over.

“You’re the _worst,_ ” Namid muttered, kicked his legs out as if it might cause Ashelm some annoyance, but only served to lightly hit the back of his calves with tiny toes.

The tone of whining only grew worse as they continued on. About a half hour from the town outskirts, Namid’s complaining started up once more, like a vile melody of off tune notes and unsteady pitches.

“Are we almost there yet? I am tired,” the man behind him spoke in a huff. “If I do not walk soon, I shall lose my feet to numbness forever.”

“Yes, we’re almost there. You know, asking about how long we have left will not make us get there any faster. And I doubt your feet will fall off from merely riding a horse.” Ashelm was exhausted, from the sheer emotional strain of withholding his own irritation. 

It struck him, then, how used he was to simply being alone. No one to accompany him while he traversed the desert sands, no other soul to feel or speak to as he hopped from city to city. Everything he did in life, from sales to journeys to meals, was done in solitude. He was unused to having anyone with him for so long. Often, he only sought the companionship of others for brief periods of time in between those travels. Bedwarmers, mostly, and the occasional drinking buddy or fellow merchant. Perhaps undertaking this journey was not the right thing to do—he was a man who fared better alone. Who else was there to ensure that this spiked porcupine didn’t come into harm’s way? No soul would do this for favors alone, not when they would be risking their own life alongside Namid’s.

 _I’m a fool_ , Ashelm came to the sudden realization. It made him grin against the view of the blue, moonlit sky. _Always a fool for a pretty face._ He never learned his lesson.

They reached the town as the sun began to peek over the horizon, bathing the land in soft, golden rays of light and stretching shadows against the rock faces. The morning air was chilly, though warmer than the night, and the slight breeze was soothing against Ashelm’s face. Up ahead, he could see a guard post on either side of the main road into the town, an attempt to ward off bandits and raiders. Their armour was composed of a light, tough fabric that would not tear beneath the blade of a knife nor bake them alive in the sun. Sharp spear heads shined under the morning sun, their faces hidden from view. Town guards were the worst. Always determined to search what they liked, with or without proper reason, and to take what they assumed they were entitled to. Nasty bastards who abused their roles of power, under the guise of protection. Not all settlements had such abysmal guards, but this town was well known for it.

Ashelm refused to deal with their inane nonsense today. Very few days did he bother with them and today would not be one of those. He guided his stallion off the main path, thankful that he could see the guards but that they could not spy him over the rising dunes, and made his way around the town’s side. Behind him, Namid was dozing. After some time of complaining, he wore himself out into silence and half-hearted slumber. Cheek pressed against the small of Ashelm’s back, arms wrapped around his middle, warm breath seeped through the fabric of his shirt. It stirred a tight feeling in his gut he was not proud of, one he shook away as quickly as it came.

This town, while smaller than Junnith, displayed taller buildings. Built from light but reliable stone, roofs made of reddened, sandy tile and much smaller windows to block out the sun. It seemed like an average place, but he knew that they would be able to get all they needed and more here. Through the empty streets and past many houses, Ashelm kept his eye out for the familiarity of the merchant’s district. Every town had one. This town’s market was located off to the right of the town center, where many sheets of once colorful, sun-faded cloth were stretched between buildings to offer shade and reprise from the growing heat. More than a handful of stalls were already open, for not even time would stop good business.

“We’ve arrived at last,” Ashelm said as he turned a glance over his shoulder as he pulled the reins to stop the stallion’s heavy hooves. They were in a short alleyway near to the market, out of sight from prying eyes. “Wake yourself, little porcupine. Keep that cloak up. You’ll draw too much unwanted attention.”

Namid blinked blurry, sleepy eyes at him and his scowl looked more like a pout. Annoyed to be woken, but adorable nonetheless. He pulled the hood down tighter as instructed, but where Ashelm easily jumped down from the horse, Namid gracelessly struggled even with a hand to hold him steady. His knees buckled as his bare feet touched the sand.

Ashelm moved on instinct to catch him, a hand at his waist and one on his arm. “Steady there,” he said, not without a hint of amusement. “We’ll walk from here on out. Do not speak unless I say so. Stick close to my side.”

“I do not want to walk,” Namid muttered, leaning against the flank of the stallion, but did so anyway when Ashelm led the way for the horse. “I am tired.”

“I am beginning to believe that there is very little you can say that isn’t tied to complaints,” he commented with a sigh, but chose not to dwell on it. It may have been the vittan oil—the sudden crash and grogginess that came with exhaustion. He would give the boy a chance to rest soon enough.

Stalls filled with a variety of goods lined either side of the street. From dried meats to fresh fruits, freshly tanned hides and hand-gathered bolts of fine cloth. Anything one could want was on display for purchase. What Ashelm needed, though, required a bit more than raw materials. He needed an expert in their craft. Which he found, of course, at a stall of well crafted clothing. Shirts, trousers, boots. The woman under the awning looked friendly enough, with dark hair cut very short and laugh lines around her mouth as it curled up into a smile.

“Welcome, traveler. What can I interest you in? We’ve plenty for sale,” she greeted, with a polite but insistent pitch. Everyone here was determined to make their fair share of money.

Ashelm returned her smile and eyed one of the many shirts before him. The stitching was well done, the craftsmanship indeed worth the cost. “I would like to speak to the madam or sir of the trade. I need very specific outfits for my companion and your handiwork is excellent.”

She seemed pleased by the praise, pointing out a door into the building behind herself. “Of course. Through this door you’ll find Madam Gina. She’s one of the best seamstresses in all of Carran. She’ll be happy to fit your companion, if he can stay awake long enough.” Her gesture indicated Namid, who used their lapse in movement as an opportunity to lean against the stallion for support as he tried to sleep on his own two feet. “I’ll keep an eye on your fine steed.”

Barely contained laughter bubbled in Ashelm’s chest. Dangerous as it was to sleep in public, he couldn’t deny that it was a precious sight for a man who was so nasty in his demeanor. “Come, porcupine,” he murmured, put a hand on Namid’s shoulder, and ducked into the doorway behind the stall. Inside, the space was more open than the outside of the building would suggest, with a makeshift platform a few inches above the floor in the center of the room. Fabrics of every color, finished and unfinished pieces, hung on every available hook and surface around the space. A thick scent of perfume and strong tea lingered heavily in the air, cloying but somehow still pleasant.

Madam Gina was far older than Ashelm expected her to be. A small, shriveled woman who had seen better years, but who also didn’t let her age stop her from moving around like a busy scorpion bee. “Need to be fitted?” She asked in a voice that was not smooth, yet still brought a sense of comfort to Ashelm.

“Not me,” he said and shuffled Namid further in front of himself. “For my companion. He’s, ah, of a particularly sensitive complexion. The sun does not agree with him like it does our people. He needs more coverage than you or I. You seem to be very skilled, so I assumed you would be able to craft him something fit for travel.”

“Very fair, indeed,” Gina remarked as she studied Namid’s face from under the cloak. It was inevitable that she would have to, much as Ashelm would prefer no one get a close look at him. “I haven’t seen such pale features in many years. You’re not from around these parts are you, young man?”

Namid, with or without permission, spoke in a weary tone. “No, ma’am.”

Ah, so he _could_ be polite. Just not to Ashelm.

“That’s alright, dear. I’ll get you sorted out. They don’t call me the best for no reason,” she chuckled and brought Namid up onto the raised platform.

It took a generous amount of time for Madam Gina to properly measure and size Namid up from head to toe. With promises that several outfits would be adjusted and ready for him in a day’s time, they left the shop together and headed deeper into the city. Not to the brothel that he would typically frequent for a bit of fun, but to a small inn on a calm, quiet street. As they ducked inside, he was thankful for the cloak that shielded his companion for view. Here, a handful of unkind faces lurked at the work stone tables, and he did not trust the gleams in their travel-hardened eyes as they spied the small figure at his side.

Easy to ignore, as Ashelm paid for a single room. He’d keep an eye on them, certainly, but glances were often just that. Not much to be done about men who wanted to look. Only if they touched would he step into action and he preferred not to think about going toe to toe with men who appeared as though they wrestled sand sharks for a living. In the meantime, he followed the innkeeper down the stairs to their small, cozy room, and thanked her for her hospitality.

“There should be a bucket of water on the nightstand. Bathe and rest for the day. Tomorrow, we’ll collect your new clothes. I have some errands in the city I need to complete,” Ashelm announced as he located the spark stones near to the fireplace. This far down in the earth, the air was cool, and it would be chilly if one was not lit soon. Crouched down and struck the stones against one another, lighting a series of sparks that danced across the wooden logs, until one caught. He fed the tiny ember air, watched as it grew into a gentle flame, then into a respectable fire. “I’d take you with me, but it’s dull work. You’re better off sleeping.”

There came no reply. Namid was full of unrelenting snark and had been unusually quiet. He turned his head to glance over at the smaller man, only to find him curled atop the still made bed. Bare feet and hands tucked under his borrowed cloak, pale lashes brushed his cheek as he slept. _Only in sleep is he quiet, it seems,_ Ashelm chuckled to himself. What an odd little fellow he was. Beautiful and vicious. Ashelm would leave him be. No sense in poking a sleeping cobra.

══════════════════

Freedom lied in solidarity. Without a second body to care for and watch closely, Ashelm was free to do as he liked no matter the risk. No one to worry for, no need to count his steps or keep his head down low. Although, that last one was still a bit necessary. Hard to tell who was after his head now. Friends were only friendly for the right benefits and if someone came along asking questions, there was more than enough reason to believe they would sell him out for a pretty penny.

One good thing about this town was the underground market, also known as the Redlight District. Illegal wares, bounty hunters for hire, cheap booze and outlawed drugs. Anything the empire didn’t want up for sale, the tricky criminals of the underground were willing to provide. For a price, of course. People were available for purchase, too, but Ashelm disliked slave traders at the best of times. Sleazy bastards, the whole lot of them. Always up to shady business, always trying to get their rocks off without damaging their so-called goods. No one in the underground was worse than a slave trader on the prowl for fresh meat and that said something, considering the amount of criminals that lurked there.

Perhaps Ashelm had no right to speak. He was, after all, a snake oil salesman. Seller of fraudulent goods, a trickster all in the name of earning coin for his purse. The only place where his wares were trustworthy was down here, below the surface, to people whose eyes were far too shrewd to deceive.

An empty stall beckoned him forth and he took it, his stallion following in his wake, and set down a clean cloth to sit upon. Beautiful, sparkling bottles were spread out alongside him. An array of liquids, dried herbs and spices. Some common but highly sought after, others rare and impossible to find within the Carran’s sandy dunes. Hence why he made the effort to travel so far beyond the usual route to procure them. Anything for a good sale or trade.

Business was always slow. People browsed and asked questions, few gave in to their curiosity. Visitors liked to talk, yet had no desire to buy.

A handsome man spied his wares now through a clean, simple cloak of brown and tan. Broad shoulders, neatly trimmed beard that the man stroked idly as he browsed. Ashelm enjoyed men of small stature and gentle faces—of which Namid possessed perfect examples of both—but there was great beauty to be found in men of sharper features as well. Strong arms, well defined jaws, muscles that could rip and tear. Life without variety was dull and bleak.

“Anything catch your eye?” Ashelm asked, chin perched on top of his hand, and wondered if he should try to grow a beard similar to the stranger’s. His stubble was short and well groomed, as beards always proved to be too hot for his liking, but it might help to turn away suspicious eyes. Perhaps not. The thought alone made his jaw feel far too itchy.

The man’s gaze flickered up to his own. Pretty dark eyes, which crinkled as he smiled. “That bottle of Snowdrop is certainly rare enough to. How much for it?”

He hummed in appreciation. “A man with good taste, I see. Fifty gold is the lowest I’ll go.”

“Fifty? Quite a steep price.” The man’s disbelief was common. People acted surprised, tried to haggle, and sometimes Ashelm would humor them.

Not with this particular product. “As you said, it’s very rare. I can assure you no one else sells it and it’s well worth the price. If you’ve no gold to give, I also accept trades if you have anything of equal value to part with.”

A moment of thoughtful consideration, calloused fingers scratched the underside of his chin. “Nothing tangible that you can hold within your hands, my friend. Unless it’s information you’re after, I’m afraid I have nothing to trade for it.”

Information was a valuable currency, as much as money and favors, but only if the source was reliable. Ashelm knew better than to trust every man he met to tell the full truth and not sprinkle it full of lies. “Information could cover the cost, yes, but you are a stranger to me. I’m sure you understand my apprehension.”

“Wise of you to be cautious. How about I offer you a sliver for free and tell you the rest if it piques your interest?”

There was no harm in it, he supposed. A taste of gossip for free was not an offer he would turn down. “Let’s hear it.”

The man glanced around subtly, as if worried a passerby might overhear, and leaned in close. “Word has it that there’s a land far to the north, past the Skeleton Sea, full of treasures and wonders not found elsewhere.”

It sounded like hogwash to Ashelm, who heard such tales too many times to count on one hand. Treasures lost to the sea of sands, buried so far down they’d become forgotten, or paradises hidden away from the eyes of man. All of it was enticing, surely, but it held no concrete proof of existence. Words thrown to the wind and swept away, never to be seen again. He waved the man’s tall tale away. To venture into the Skeleton Sea was a death sentence, anyhow. It received that name from the remains of long dead beasts that dwelled beneath the surface, responsible for sinking ships during low tide, and the amount of ships that were pulled into the watery depths. “I have interest only in tangible information. Fairy tales will get you nothing.”

“Believe me, I thought it was nonsense as well. But word has it a slave trader brought a ship full of people back from there.” The stranger didn’t speak with forced grandeur in the fashion of a storyteller, but that didn’t make his words any more believable.

“You’ve piqued my interest,” Ashelm decided immediately and picked up the jar of blue, powdery Snowdrop. People living on a far off island didn’t sound impossible, but it was the addition of slaves that made it interesting. Perhaps it was unrelated, but the potential for answers was far too great to pass up. A foreign land, unnamed and unexplored by the empire, could hold many people who looked like his bizarre and vicious porcupine. “Tell me all that you know.”

“Not too much, I’m afraid. Only that the land is closed off to outsiders. Impossible to get inside, though I couldn’t tell you how they keep it guarded.” The man eyed the bottle with more interest than he put into the conversation. Growing bored, it seemed.

It wasn’t enough information yet. “Then how did a slave trader manage to grab anyone to sell?”

“Not a clue. You’d have to ask them.”

It might not be related or worth the price of his precious Snowdrop, but a lead was a lead. Better than no lead at all. “His name?” Ashelm pressed, holding tightly to the jar.

“Her. A woman who lives all the way in the capitol, on the other side of the desert. Goes by Tempest. Don’t know what her real name is.” It was the man’s turn to be slightly amused. “Why, you interested in buying a unique slave?”

Ashelm placed the jar into his hand at last. “Perhaps,” he answered, halfway lost in thought. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

 _Little porcupine,_ he thought as he watched many feet kick through the sand. _How far from home have you come?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone for reading this story! Didn’t think I would get so many hits or kudos, but I’m happy to see that you’re enjoying it so far.
> 
> I apologize for the delayed update. They should be more consistent from here on out.
> 
> Thank you for reading and have a good day!


	4. Into the Hornets’ Nest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, violence against an animal, mentions of animal death, sexual themes and explicit language.

╭─────────╮

☆ - 𝓐𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓵𝓶 - ☆

╰─────────╯

  
“These clothes are _horrendous_ ,” Namid remarked as they passed by the outskirts of the town. On one shoulder, he carried a bag containing the rest of his new clothing, and in his opposite hand he held a pastry like a precious treasure. He’d already devoured four of the original twelve, much to Ashelm’s amusement.

One would think no one ever fed him, though he didn’t think that could be true. The bit of soft flesh on his limbs and belly said otherwise—it spoke of a boy who had enough to eat and didn’t have any need to partake in too harsh of physical labor. Which worked out quite well, in his opinion. Soft men, muscular men, tall and short. They all shared their own form of beauty.

Ashelm tried not to laugh. He really did. Honestly. The chuckle that slipped past his defenses was entirely not of his own free will. Not that Namid looked bad, as he put it, but over his attitude. He looked just fine. Dressed in light brown trousers and a pleasant cream-colored shirt, both made of a light and airy material that would breathe well in the heat and protect him from the sun. In addition to the black cloak across his shoulders and the sturdy sandals, it was by all means a pleasant outfit. Common, efficient, and would prevent him from either freezing or burning. Ashelm currently wore a similar outfit—though his own was entirely gray, aside from his black cloak. There was nothing _horrendous_ about it.

His laugh received a dark, nasty glare. One he was slowly growing used to the more he saw it.

“It’ll keep you from turning into a blood red tomato when the sun comes up. It’s fine. What’s the issue?”

Namid’s glare intensified by a noticeable margin. “It’s not _fine._ It’s ugly! The colors are dull, the cuffs are too boring, there’s no embroidery, the fabric is downright _bizarre_.”

It was nice to see that, after a full day of nearly uninterrupted and endless sleep, his small companion was once more feeling like himself. No longer influenced by illegal drugs or a desire to fuck anything with a functioning cock, back to being his—what seemed—typical snarky self. Ashelm was willing to admit that he enjoyed the sassy, sharp tongue, apart from the periodic bouts of complaining. Those he could very much do without.

“For a slave, you seem to have such picky taste in fabric. What did your old master dress you in before you left? Expensive silks and gold chains?”

It was only meant to be a joke, but Namid’s face contorted in displeasure, which he hid behind his pastry. “His bedsheets,” he answered nastily. “And more jewels than gold. He thought...diamonds suited me better.”

The air was a bit too tense for Ashelm’s liking. Easy to put an end to, with a simple grin and shrug of his shoulders. “Diamonds, eh? A man of unbelievably ridiculous taste, sounds like,” he replied as he swung himself up into the saddle. “Bet he was a horrid show-off.”

Namid always took his hand so gingerly, as if he thought that Ashelm would be unable to pull him fully up or would drop him before he settled himself on the horse’s back. There was no trust, but then again, that was rightfully so. They were strangers. Strangers forced together by circumstances beyond their control, but nothing more than that.

“Not as much of a show-off as you.” Namid slung the insult as he took his usual place, arms loose and tense where they wrapped around Ashelm’s waist.

It made him laugh, those would-be hurtful words that did nothing but fill him with amusement. “Me, a show-off? Absolutely not. Why, I have no skills to speak of in which to show off. I am merely a merchant, you see.”

Their journey now would take them further into the depths of the desert, for their destination was Kivarek, a rather safe town close to the capitol. It was as good a location as any to take the bedwarmer, perhaps find him a more permanent place to hide out for the time being.

“You don’t _act_ like a merchant,” came the incredulous reply.

“And how, exactly, does a merchant act?”

“I don’t know. Less like a conceited pervert.”

Stunned, laughter came to Ashelm after a short pause of silence. He had to grip the reins tightly to keep from losing his balance. “You’re good for a laugh, little porcupine. Believe me, you have not seen me act like that yet. I’d be happy to show you just how perverted I can be. Perhaps you’d like for me to give you a demonstration?”

The squeak—followed by a sharp smack to the back of his head—was well worth the unsteady, broken words of dismay. “You—no—don’t say such things! Keep your wandering hands to yourself.”

The pain barely bothered Ashelm at all. He only wished he could spy Namid’s red face right now.

“Fine, fine. Your loss,” Ashelm relented. Although he was morally sound enough not to take advantage of a drugged man, he was not beyond unreciprocated flirtatious teasing. Life was quite dull without a bit of fun. “But these hands of mine can be quite skilled in the art of—”

“Stop it! Ugh, you’re _barbaric_.” Namid sniffed behind him and Ashelm could practically _hear_ the grimace on his face. Changed the subject, most likely, in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. “Where are we going, anyhow?”

Ashelm would indulge him, if only to prevent another smack to the head. “Kivarek. It’s a few days’ time from here. I believe we’ll find a more permanent place of refuge there.” That was the hope, at least. No telling what they may encounter, when push came to shove.

“What makes it any safer than the town we’re leaving? They all seem the same to me. Dusty, hot and unbearable.”

“Every town in Carran has their own laws. Our emperor makes laws that all must follow, but every major town is run by a baron or baroness, and they dictate the rules of their own town as part of their duties on the council. Some are reasonable, some are not. Kivarek is known for being very kind to slaves and bedwarmers such as yourself.” It was one reason why many in Carran both adored and despised the place; one reason why it was held at such a high spot of controversy.

Namid’s curiosity was so easy to pique. “Why is that? And you use that word a lot—bedwarmer. What does it mean?”

“Because the baroness is fond of those in your position. She even married her favorite bedwarmer, much to the outrage of the public. The emperor gave his blessings, though, so it doesn’t matter much what anyone else thinks.” As for the meaning of the word in question, Ashelm thought it would be obvious. He forgot that this was not the man’s native tongue, nor did he know much about their government. “Slaves are legal to keep here as laborers, as long as they are given the ability to reasonably buy their own freedom. Forcing a slave into an occupation of sex is not. When our current emperor passed that law, many slave owners were upset. In the end, our emperor came to the decision to allow bedwarmers to be acceptable. It is, technically, nothing more than a glorified, polite way of saying sex slave to slip around the law. Although, they’re still sold on the dark market like any other slave, and not strictly allowed to be auctioned off.”

The law never stopped traders from doing it, anyway. They made heavy coin from selling pretty, helpless bedwarmers to the highest bidders. No different than one might sell the finest sheep in the public square or the ripest fruit.

A soft hum, followed quickly by another question. “But what makes it legal, if it’s only a change of name?”

“Bedwarmers are not counted as _slaves_. The law stated only slaves are exempt from such treatment, so a new term was coined to work around the limitations.”

“Then it’s a...what’s the word for it? When you find a way around a problem?”

Ashelm thought for a minute. “A compromise?”

“No, not that one. It’s a silly word. Something about holes.” Namid idly tapped his fingers against Ashelm’s flank, little pinpricks of pressure that signified his determination and musings.

The only hole Ashelm was interested in was the one Namid sat upon. Or perhaps the one he used to speak with. Neither of those thoughts left his head, for he did not want to risk being pushed off his steed. For while he was not the worst man alive, he was still human, and succumbed rather easily to such risqué thoughts. “Oh, you mean loophole. Yes, it’s a loophole. A stupid one.”

Namid poked him harshly in the side, so he must have still said the wrong thing, and he instinctively leaned away from the finger. “Ow, hey. Watch it, you pointy creature.”

“You call it stupid, yet you willingly visited a brothel. What sense does that make?” The smaller man questioned with a tone befitting of a court judge, not a man who specialized in pleasure.

“Most of the boys are happy to be there and not in the bed of a slave trader or cruel master. Brothels are far better than you might think—ow! Stop poking me, you urchin.”

The conversation derailed from laws and ethics to somewhat playful jabs—quite literally—as they descended into the sandy expanse of the desert. It was odd to admit it, but Ashelm was quite at ease in the other man’s presence, all things considered. He never would have thought that this, the questions of a bedwarmer intermingled with the occasional half-hearted insult directed at his personality or appearance, would be just as good as solitude.

Perhaps even better than it, if he allowed himself to admit such a thing.

══════════════════

“What’s his name?”

The question caught Ashelm off guard, as he stoked a small fire to life and coaxed the flames to burst into life. He decided that it was time to stop for the night, taking refuge beneath the shadowed overhang of a large cliff. Out of sight from any potential threats, shielded from the chilly night wind. He left Namid beneath it with the horse, tethered to the ground, while he went to hunt. Game in the desert was small and hard to come by, but luck was on his side, and he managed to kill a rather plump rabbit before it could scurry away back to its home.

He wasn’t sure who Namid was referring to, as he paused in his actions. “Who?”

Namid’s nose wrinkled as he patted the stallion on the neck, soft and gentle touches of his tiny hands. Ever since they stopped, he had been glued to the horse’s side. Endlessly letting him, whispering words that were foreign, unknown, but no less sweet. Although he didn’t sound so sweet when he spoke to Ashelm. “Are you daft? Your horse. What’s his name?”

“Oh, him.” Once the fire was large enough, he placed the skinned hare across the spit, and left it to roast. Not a large meal, but suitable enough for the two of them. The topic was one he paid attention to only halfheartedly. “He doesn’t have one.”

Now it was Namid who appeared caught off guard. Surprise shifted quickly to irritation. “You never named him? That’s awfully cruel of you.”

Ashelm was many things. A con artist, a heartbreaker, an adventure—cruel was not one of them. He took the insult with a grain of salt, though, and shrugged. “He’s a horse, not a human,” he pointed out. “He serves his purpose, I feed him, and we’re both happy at the end of the day. What more is there to it?”

It was not a common practice to name work animals in Carran. Be they horses, mules or camels, they were kept only for the sole purpose of aiding the life of humans. A name made no difference in the matter.

Namid did not carry the same belief, if his dismayed reply was any indication. “He’s not—that is not right! You can’t just call him horse forever. That’s plain rude. He carries around your sorry rear and lugs around your heavy things. Least you could do is give him a name. He has to have one.”

So determined about the most bizarre, useless subjects. If he were any other type of man, Ashelm might find it bothersome. Amusement was all he felt, in all honesty. Another shrug was his silent response, followed by, “Name him yourself, if you’re so determined to do so. And my rear is not sorry. It’s quite shapely, if I do say so myself.”

There was silent as the rabbit cooked, no words spoken as they ate, and none as Ashelm cleaned up and kicked sand over the fire to put out the fire. It wasn’t a heavy silence, one brought to him by awkward or negative tension. He found that the longer he spent in Namid’s presence, the easier it became to see that he enjoyed small silences. Lost in thought, whatever might be floating about that pretty head, surrounded by a pillow of beautiful white hair.

“His name will be Yashu,” Namid whispered, after they’d both settled into their respective spots to rest and he fussed over having to sleep in the sand. The name left his tongue like an elegant dance, foreign and mysterious.

A good name as any. Ashelm assumed that would be the end of their night’s conversation, but was mildly surprised when the boy continued in spite of his silence.

“It means ‘strength in heart’. I think it suits him quite well. Only a strong horse could survive in this god-forsaken desert. So he will be Yashu from here on out and he won’t let himself die in this wasteland, because he wants to keep living and make it back to a safe place.” A tight edge tinted his words, hardened them as they filled the space between their bodies.

More emotions were bared beneath the facade of caring for a mere horse. Raw, brittle ones that he would not try to dissect tonight.

“It’s a nice name,” Ashelm said after some time of consideration.

Although he did not say so, Namid was also a nice name. Unusual and different from the harsh and stern names of Carran. Somehow softer, flowing easily from his tongue, though he rarely used it now. What would it sound like, to say such a name in pleasure? Better yet, how would it sound to have Namid say his own name? Whisper it, moan it, scream it to the divines and all their realms. Such thoughts were better not dwelt on. Namid was not his to take, no matter his beauty or enchantingly distrustful personality, and he would have to accept that for what it was.

══════════════════

On the evening of their second day in the desert, Ashelm became aware of how the arid, hot climate truly did not suit his companion well. He tried to sleep through most of the day, but found himself waking up many times as Namid tossed and turned in his spot. One eye opened a crack, he watched as the boy moved from his back, to his side, to his stomach, repeated the process all over again. He pushed his face into the travel pillow Ashelm offered to him a day ago, when he so vehemently demanded that he would not sleep without one. It was impossible to rest with the restless noise and energy only a couple feet away.

“You’ll bore a hole into the ground if you keep tossing around,” he mumbled, stretched out his arms and lifted them to cover his eyes. It was a rather nice day, in his opinion. Bright, though bearable beneath the shade between two rocks and the cloth he strung between them, and not nearly as hot as it could be.

Namid’s response was a quiet whine. “I cannot help it. It’s _hot_.”

“It’s not that hot, porcupine.”

His dismissal must have been the knife to cut the final thread, as the pillow hit Ashelm in the stomach, and he was met with an unhappy face when he glanced over. “It is! I am burning alive. It’s hot and it’s too bright and my back hurts from sleeping on the ground and—”

“Namid,” Ashelm said softly, a warning. He could only take so much of the whining for so long. “We’re in a desert. Trust me, it could be much hotter. We’re lucky to be in the shade. Drink some water, place a wet cloth on your skin. There’s not much else to do about the heat.”

A pink, flushed pout met his calm words, and it stirred a feeling in his gut he didn’t want to think about. He couldn’t help but think he looked nice with a deep blush, that it brought a nice bit of color to his pale skin. Not the type of thoughts he should entertain, if he didn’t want to drive his body up a wall with nowhere to go and no way to relieve himself.

“Isn’t there a lake somewhere? A river? Pond?”

The hopeful, honeyed tone of his words didn’t help to cease Ashelm’s blood from heading south. Nor did the contents of the words. He could only picture it—Namid, up to his waist in crystalline water, beautiful and elegant. White hair plastered to his skin, droplets of water sliding down his shoulders, so far down until they returned to the pool. Gods and goddesses, what he wouldn’t give to simply watch him swim from afar just to have a perfect view of his—

“Ashelm?”

Startled from the too pleasant daydream, Ashelm blinked at the face right across from his, and cleared his throat. He was thankful that his trousers didn’t feel that tight and willed him himself to calm down. _What are you, a horny teenager? You act as though you’ve never bedded a man in your entire life._ If his voice sounded breathy and his face was darkened by a blush, he prayed the man didn’t notice. “Lakes are hard to find. There aren’t many rivers in winter, either. Sometimes there are little streams in spring. It doesn’t rain often and never very much when it does.”

Water was a scarce resource, coveted by all as the main foundation of life as was known, and burdensome to seek out in the sandy dunes. To find a body large enough to swim in was a grandiose, almost delusional, idea.

“I _hate_ the desert.” The words were muffled by Namid’s hands as he covered his face and dragged them down his skin. “Why do deserts even exist upon this earth? All they are is dumb rocks and stupid dirt and _I hate it_.”

There was much to hate about the desert. The sun, the heat, the lack of water—traits that were unchangeable and irritating, even at the best of times. Yet there was much to love, as well. The endless blue sky, the shimmer of golden sun in the daytime, the beautiful expanse of stars when the sunset and the moon rose over the horizon. Those little bits of beauty made up for the hardships. Moreover, it was the only place that Ashelm had ever really known. No singular house or city called to him. Carran itself, the entire border of land within the empire, was his true home. He belonged here, amid the bad and the good.

“What’s it like where you come from?” The question left his mouth before he could think better of it. Perhaps Namid wouldn’t answer. Either way, his curiosity of the man’s origins hadn’t yet abated.

“It’s a lot different. Trees as far as you can see, fields of flowers that bloom every spring. Lots of green. It rains and it snows and never gets too hot in the summer. There’s so much _life_ there. And here, it’s just…” Namid sat up, reached down, and picked up a handful of sand. Let the grains slip between his fingers, until there was nothing left. “Sand. Like everything here has already died.”

_Like everything here has already died._

Ashelm wondered if the sand they slept on, the grains that they crushed beneath their feet when they walked, were the remnants of a once beautiful land. Like the one Namid described. If there had, at one time, been endless troves of trees and gorgeous flowers. All long dead, disintegrated into dust and sand, replaced by the bare skeleton of the rocks beneath the soil. Carran, if it had ever once been such a paradise, must have lost all that life long ago. So many years in the past that not a single living soul remembered it.

“There’s life here,” he assured. His gaze traveled upward, to the rock across from him, until he spotted a small plant rooted between the cracks. “You have to look closely. See, up there? That’s a spotted rose bush. They grow all over this part of Carran. When they bloom, it attracts sparrow butterflies and all kinds of insects. Three-eyed newts like to make their nests inside them.”

No reply. Silence. This time, it was Ashelm’s turn to keep talking.

“Spring is a beautiful season here. It rains more, herds of animals follow the storms, and make the journey toward wet land. There are spots where trees grow, too, around small ponds. A bit hard to find, but they’re around. Many towns are built around them.” He didn’t know why he cared enough to defend Carran—it wasn’t like he could change Namid’s mind. The bedwarmer was an outsider, for one, and an unwilling one. A foreign slave. No ties to this land, no love for its people or hidden treasures.

“I like to look at the sky when we’re riding Yashu,” Namid announced. “It reminds me of home.”

_And where is your home, Namid? Where is it?_

He wanted to ask. To know where this stranger called home, to know the name of the green paradise he described. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to voice the words. It wasn’t his business nor was it his problem. Or perhaps he was nervous to confirm whether or not it was the land beyond the Skeleton Sea his customer had spoken of, though that didn’t make much sense, either. Nothing made him nervous. He looked dangerous clients in the eye and sold them counterfeit goods without breaking a sweat. _It’s none of your concern,_ he reminded himself. _You’re just a traveling merchant. Not a hero, not an adventurer. Don’t get involved any further than you already have._

══════════════════

The latter half of their trip, on the following night, that a dark and unpleasant sensation curled deep within the recesses of Ashelm’s mind. Over an hour ago, the sand turned to dusty, hard-packed earth, and the dunes faded into stone hills. His preferred path to Kivarek ended across a short, narrow trail, up a series of tall and steep walls. Jagged, treacherous rock, unclimbable for those with animals in tow. Safe was never the word that came to mind when he made this journey, but even so, he knew well enough that there was no better route. It was the fastest way, made it easy to keep an eye on potential dangers from the high vantage point. On the other side, Kivarek was only a short walk away.

High above, somewhere in the cloudless sky, the non-existent gods and goddesses howled in laughter at the bad luck of one unfortunate merchant. For the first time he could recall since he began his nomadic life as a lad, the path was blocked. Large, heavy stones covered the ground, piled so high he was forced to crane his neck to see the peak. Even if he could have merely climbed over it with enough time, there was no chance his horse—Yashu—could follow suit. Not without risk of falling and injuring himself, for that was just as bad as death. A horse that could not walk would have to be shown the worst kind of mercy.

And curse a certain, white-haired man for pushing Ashelm into the habit of referring to the horse by a name. Much as he tried to fight it, the name came to him habitually.

“You’re making an ugly face,” Namid commented from where he sat alone on top of Yashu’s back, hands petting the creature’s flank affectionately. In the moonlight, his white hair appeared silver, and his eyes shone bright as fossilized amber. Atop the black steed, he almost looked like a figure of legend, carved into stone to be immortalized forever.

The face in question was one of pensive thought. Ashelm made an uglier one at the words, he was certain. “You’re one to talk,” he shot back and there was little heat in the words. His hands were on his hips, fingers brushed over the hide of his whip. Although he seldomly used it, the feeling of it brought him a sense of ease. Comfort in familiarity.

“I already told you, I do not make ugly faces. What are you even looking at? This pile of rocks isn’t going to move no matter how long you stare at it.”

Ashelm didn’t answer. As a matter of fact, he was intently studying the position and shape of the stones before them. Rock slides happened all the time without so much as a warning. Over time the wind could carve away at them and weaken their structures. Doubly so if they already stood in uneven surfaces. They were never stacked up so neatly, however, with large stones at the bottom and smaller ones toward the top. That in itself was a bad sign.

From behind him, Namid squawked out, “Wait—what are you doing?”

Ashelm had leapt off the ground and onto the stack of rocks, instinctively seeking out natural handholds between the craigy slope. “Taking a look,” he called down. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

There was a huff and an almost-groan. “What am I supposed to do while you’re goofing around?”

“Be quiet and wait patiently. Maybe learn to come to terms with the fact that you make very ugly faces.”

It was a simple task to climb and find the smallest grooves in which to place his feet into or use to haul himself upward. Moving higher always reminded him of days long gone—he adored to climb as a child. Any surface that was taller than himself. Nothing felt more freeing than to stand atop the highest point and look down at everything beneath him, so small and insignificant. The rush of blood in his ears, the cold wind as it whipped across his short hair and sweaty skin. A shame he couldn’t enjoy it now with the sense of caution and dread, weighing as heavily as lead in his body. At the top, he stood and surveyed the pile of debris. As he thought, it didn’t extend too far past the beginning of the trail, only enough to block their entrance. Not a surprise, but certainly a worry.

After a minute and a deep breath, Ashelm made his way back down, to where his companion sat pouting. “Completely blocked,” he announced with a wave of his hand and took Yashu’s reins in his hand. Began to guide the horse away from the impassable road, to the right where a smaller trail snaked around the base of the mountainous terrain on flatter land. “We’ll have to take a different route. Keep your eyes and your ears sharp, porcupine.”

“If you say so,” was the huffed, unworried reply, and it relieved him to know the other man wasn’t nearly as on edge.

Naivety was not a good trait. A man could die from a lack of caution, same as he could from starvation. When it came to Namid, however, Ashelm would prefer to keep him calm and unconcerned. He seemed the type to panic and make reckless decisions, given his hot-headed and temperamental nature, and that was the last thing either of them needed.

For a time, all was quiet. A nocturnal bird cawed roughly in the distance, Namid took to humming an almost silent tune to Yashu, and Ashelm made as little noise as possible. He should have been happy that all was well, but the hair on the back of his neck bristled beneath the hood of his cloak, and his palms were clammy.

Ashelm saw the glint of moonlight on metal long before he heard the dull _shink_ of a sharp tip pierce the ground.

A startled, angry whinny sounded from Yashu, and it was not much different than the fearful noise Namid made.

“Bandits!” Ashelm hissed and moved as fast as he could to swing himself onto Yashu’s back, almost knocking the smaller man down in the process. He took his place not in front of him as usual, but behind him, gripped the reins tightly and leaned down over him.

Namid didn’t fight against him, even as they were pressed flushed together and he was forced to duck beneath Ashelm. “ _Bandits?_ ”

“Stay down,” he growled, spurred Yashu into motion with one fierce movement of the reins. Softly, he spoke to the horse, in a gruff voice. “I know how much you love to run, Yashu, and how the desert does not let you. Well you have a flat road ahead and permission now, my friend.”

The horse never needed much encouragement. His steady gait soon turned into jog, then a full-on canter. The silence from above was unnerving, interrupted only by the _whoosh_ of arrows as they rained down from high above. Ashelm turned his head, to see the road pass quickly behind them, and the stark silhouette of hooded figures on the ridge line against the sky. Three—no, seven. Too large of a group to take by hand, on foot or horseback, when they were all archers. Distance was on their side. As soon as they rounded the corner, they would be out of sight and out of range. Even the best of the best struggled to hit a moving target from such great lengths.

All they needed to do was be lucky until then.

“Can’t you _fight_ _back?_ ” The call of Namid’s voice rose above the wind that whipped against his ears and the clatter of strong hooves.

“Are you _mad?_ That’s an entire group of archers. Only one of us has any weapons or knowledge of combat and we’re outnumbered. They’ll shoot me dead before I get anywhere close!”

“Am I going to die? I am, aren’t I? I’m going to die in the middle of a desert all because of a perverted merchant, and no one will ever find my body—”

This was neither the time or place for an argument, but Ashelm immediately snapped back a heated, “ _Stop panicking!_ ”

“Telling me not to panic makes me _panic more_.”

“I don’t know what else to tell you!”

They were close to the turn, only a few feet away now, and Ashelm could see their escape right in front of his eyes. So close he could almost grab it in his hands, feel it on the skin of his fingertips.

“How about you tell me it’ll be okay? Or that you’ll save me? Or that—”

A screech filled the night air. Inhuman but deeply in pain. The strong, sturdy body that had always carried Ashelm across peaceful and treacherous plains alike collapsed beneath the two of them. For a mere moment, he was weightless—flying, with no wings to guide his way. A body was still pressed to his, moving away. He grabbed Namid in the nick of time, pulled him close. Then, all at once, Ashelm hit the ground with enough force to knock the air from his lungs and erupt a cascade of pain down his arm. Rolled, arms wrapped tight around Namid. Their tumbling bodies came to a stop with a harsh slide.

Ashelm couldn’t breathe, flat his back with the weight of another above him, and he saw more stars than those that twinkled in the sky. His lungs wouldn’t cooperate, frozen, and he gasped. Along the way, he must have hit his head. Felt the blood pour from the wound; there was little pain. Everything was too numb.

Someone above him started talking. Noise, sounds, but not words. Senseless madness in his buzzing mind.

A harsh slap to his cheek jolted him out of his own head, returned the air to his body with a ragged inhale. Namid cried, wet sniffles that rang in his ears. “Ashelm, _Ashelm_! Please, there are people coming, please—”

Moving set his body on fire, but Ashelm had no choice but to rise to his feet, unsteady. The world spun beneath him. People were moving closer, figures shadowed and armed with bright weapons.

 _Whip,_ Ashelm thought. His hands found it, uncoiled the length, and he took the proper stance. Feet firmly planted, widened to provide himself more balance, the weapon hanging down by his side.

The crack of the whip was accompanied by a hoarse cry of pain. Blood splattered into the sand as the closest attacker dropped his knife and held the stump of his arm, what remained his severed hand. Ashelm struck the metal tip of the whip along the face of another, cutting through flesh like fabric. He didn’t know where he was aiming. The movement, the attackers all dressed in black, the faceless enemies out for blood—they all blended together, into one seamless shape, and he couldn’t be certain where one stopped and the other began. It was noise, noise, _noise._ Above it all, his own voice rang true.

_You need to fight._

His head pounded, his body moved on instinct beaten into him through years of training, and he forgot all fear. There was nothing but him, his whip, and those who would meet the tail end of it. Vaguely, he was aware of the man he had no choice but to defend, curled up on the ground behind him by his injured horse. Shielded, protected, out of sight.

_I’m not a hero._

In the blink of an eye, Ashelm wrapped the whip tightly around the wrist of a man who came to close and used the momentum to fling him aside. Tears flowered as freely as blood. Viscera dotted the clearing, clumps of crimson sand.

_I don’t save people._

“Call off your archers,” his own voice was unfamiliar in his ears. Deeper, colder. He barely recognized it. The taste of copper danced on his tongue. “Call off your archers, take your wounded, and leave us be.”

Two men rose back up to their feet, blood flowing from their wounds, and clutched their blades tighter. He couldn’t see their faces. Their body language spoke it all: _we fight to the death._

“Don’t make me kill you,” Ashelm pleaded, adjusting the grip of his fingers. “Don’t make me do it.”

_Don’t force me to take your lives._

Closer, the two men stepped forward. Wounded, but so determined to fight with their last breaths. Ashelm couldn’t let them get any closer than that—Namid was behind him, weaponless, defenseless. It was a matter of choice, of life and death. To put it simply: Namid’s life, his _own_ life, was more important than those of any murderous bandits.

Ashelm twisted his wrist and flung the whip down, watched the black line curl like a snake, its metal fang dug deep into skin. Ripped the life from the nearest man’s body, straight through the wound on his throat, and dragged his ally down into the slow pit of death by the slash across his chest. 

A shower of arrows descended upon him and he was too preoccupied to even attempt to dodge. He felt the sting of a cut along his forearm. It didn’t pierce into the skin, which he was only coherent enough to know due the arrow not being lodged inside his arm. A mere graze. Either the archers decided to settle their losses and flee, or they didn’t see the point in killing him any longer, because no further shots came.

“Ashelm?” Namid’s tiny voice snapped him out of his violent frenzy.

He glanced over at the man, still curled up on the ground, by the dark, slumped shape of Yashu. Curled against his heaving, dark flank. Ashelm said nothing, headed over to the horse he had known for years, and knelt down beside him. The shaft of an arrow stuck out of his side, blood seeped between the wood and feathers.

Tears glistened on Namid’s cheeks as he patted the horse’s neck, the creature’s head in his lap. “Get over here and help him. You can, can’t you?”

“I don’t know if I can,” Ashelm said. The exhaustion washed over him, a tidal wave that swept by and left his body with nothing. He crouched down, almost lost his balance, and examined the spot where the arrow protruded from. It didn’t look like it had gone in very deep, but he was no doctor. If it had caused him to collapse then perhaps it was worse than it looked. There was only one thing he could do. Unsheathing his knife, he sliced through the feathered tail of the arrow and tossed it aside.

“Move out of the way. I’ll do it myself.” There was a hint of anger in Namid’s words, but he didn’t raise his voice. Unusually quiet, for once. He didn’t shy away from Ashelm or give him space after the violent display earlier, but leaned in very close to try to see the wound as he worked.

Without any time to protest, Ashelm was unceremoniously shoved out of the way by small, insistent hands. He stood there, slack-jawed and baffled, until the man snapped at him.

“Don’t just stand there balking at me like a daft simpleton. Fetch me your medicine bag, if you have one, and a bit of cloth and water.” Namid’s amber gaze was bright as fire and he snapped, “Ashelm, stop staring!”

Ashelm never knew anyone to boss him about. He was a drifter, a free spirit, who did as he pleased and obeyed no one. Yet he moved willingly as the man told him to, digging through the bags on Yashu’s sides, until he came up with the items needed.

“I’m not a healer,” he said, able to see how the Namid grabbed the wooden shaft of the arrow and pulled, ignored the cry from Yashu, and threw the remainder of the intrusive object away. The night was clear and it was easy to see, so he managed to find the bag that contained his travel kit. Some bottles were broken from the fall, but the most important ones were still intact. He handed it over without any argument.

“Doesn’t matter if you’re a healer or not. What is this?” Namid asked, holding up a jar of ointment, which he gave a sniff.

“A special ointment. Stops bleeding and hardens.”

The second bottle was a yellow-ish liquid. “And this?”

“Disinfects. We only use a little.”

A brief moment of still, silent work passed. Namid dabbed at the wound with a wet cloth first, used a sparing amount of yellow liquid to clean it, then smeared a generous handful of ointment across it. He shredded a piece of cloth, bandaged the wound, and sat back on his feet to observe the work.

Namid broke it, in an angry sniffle. “Now what?”

“He has to decide whether or not he wants to stand,” Ashelm pointed out, tired enough to collapse, but stubborn enough to keep watching. A horse who would not stand or walk was a creature that needed to be given mercy. It was impossible to tell how many injuries he had, other than bumps and bruises. If Yashu didn’t take the incentive and try, there was nothing more that could be done.

“And if he doesn’t stand?”

Ashelm thought the alternative was obvious. As it stood, his head hurt too much to play any game of subtlety. “Then I’ll put him out of his misery before a wild animal comes alone and does it for me.”

“You’ll _kill_ him?” The outrage was far too loud in his ears—it rattled his brain, made his head pound.

“Better to make sure he doesn’t suffer.”

“I won’t let you,” Namid decided and wiped his face on the sleeve of his shirt. “You won’t kill him. He’s strong. He’ll stand up.”

The problem wasn’t that Yashu might not stand: it was that they didn’t have much time to wait. If they stayed here like this, they made themselves targets for another attack. The archers could still be nearby, waiting for their chance to strike.

Either by Namid’s pointless sense of hope or Yashu’s own sense of self-preservation, the horse did struggle to his feet. He was no longer graceful, not the majestic beast that not long before ran nearly as fast as the wind itself. Still, he stood, and towered above Ashelm’s head. Their gazes met—deep brown, not human but intelligent, and he patted the horse on the nose.

“Come, then. Stick close to me, porcupine. They might come back,” Ashelm said and began to walk. As slow and unsteady as his horse, unconcerned with his wounds, though he would have loved to take a break.

Namid did stick close, albeit reluctantly, and held Yashu’s reins in his hands. “Are you hurt?”

“Not severely.” A bit of a lie. The entire world looked blurry. His head spun in circles like a child’s toy. Thoughts sluggish, tongue heavy in his mouth. “Don’t worry that pretty head of yours over my safety. I’ve had worse.”

“I’m not _worried_ ,” Namid protested. “Certainly not over you. If you die, I have to find someone else to travel with, and that’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Oh, of course you aren’t. How could I forget how angry my handsome face makes you?” Ashelm wasn’t in the best mood, but jokes made everything better. No sense in fighting until they reached civilization.

All he knew for certain was that he really needed a tall glass of booze and a soft bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to everyone reading.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and until next time, have a nice day!


	5. A Small Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Warnings: Explicit language, violence, nudity, sexual themes, mentions of slavery.

╭─────────╮

☆ - 𝓐𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓵𝓶 - ☆

╰─────────╯

  
“I don’t see why I can’t go with you,” Namid complained, for what must have been the hundredth time, despite being told more than once exactly why he couldn’t come with him. “I’ve gone to every other town with you. There are bad people everywhere. The brothel was full of them.”

Bad people didn’t begin to cover the extent of the danger in the capitol for someone like Namid. There were bandits, slave traders, greedy nobles and mercenaries. Not to mention the emperor’s royal guard, which was notorious for sticking their dicks down the throats of any man, woman or sentient creature that they found attractive enough. Or the emperor himself, who was as shifty and untrustworthy as his men, who might very well snatch Namid away if he set his eyes upon him.

No, it was not a good place for Namid to be.

Right now, they stood in the stables connected to the inn, and even being in there with Namid under the cover of a cloak was enough to make him antsy. Ashelm gave Yashu a steady pat on the flank. After a few days of rest, both he and his horse were in much better shape. Although, after endless amounts of insistence that the steed wasn’t fit for travel yet, Ashelm agreed to leave him with Namid and travel by foot. Slower, but he could do it.

“It’s not just bad people. The entire place is crawling with enemies and political scandal. I have business to do and unfortunately, I can’t keep my eye on you as often as I’d like while doing it. It’s better for you to stay here.”

“I’m not a child. You don’t need to watch over me,” he huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. The pout he wore did nothing to help his argument. “Give me a knife. I can protect myself if I need to.”

The thought had crossed his mind, but Ashelm didn’t trust him not to stab random passersby who irritated him or to know when not to pick a fight. Besides, he likely didn’t really know how to fight. Soon, he would teach the boy to defend himself properly, but that day was not today.

“Porcupine, I don’t like leaving you by yourself anymore than you like being left behind. But that’s the way it has to be. If I get attacked by bandits again, it’ll be better to not put you in danger. Stay here at the inn, keep out of sight and don’t draw any attention to yourself.” Ashelm slung his travel bag over his shoulder, double checked that he had everything he needed, and finally looked up to meet the gaze of the other man. Pouty lips, narrowed eyes, sagged and rigid shoulders. “I’ll bring you a gift back from the capitol, if you’d like?”

Honestly, he didn’t know the first thing about what Namid liked and disliked when it came to gifts. Jewelry, perhaps? Or maybe different clothes. Food was probably a safe choice, as he seemed to love sweets.

Namid mumbled something under his breath that sounded a lot like _you_ , but he didn’t quite catch it.

“What was that?”

“I said I want to go with you,” muttered the smaller man, his stature still tense and unhappy, a deep pink color tinted his cheeks even in the candlelight. “I don’t want to stay here. I’ll behave and I’ll stay out of your way. I promise I will. I’ll stick with you and I won’t talk to anyone. Please?”

The only time Namid begged this much was when he _really_ wanted something, like back at the brothel when he was desperately afraid of being caged. Or when he absolutely _needed_ to eat the last of the breakfast sweet rolls that Ashelm stored away for later. It was a rare occurrence and one that was often amusing, but not this time. Now, it was accompanied by big, desperate amber discs and an extended lower lip that begged to be bitten.

 _You think with the wrong head far too often_ , Ashelm chided himself as he watched Namid absently lick at his bottom lip. “But if you go with me, there won’t be anyone to look after Yashu,” he reminded. “He needs rest and we can’t leave him here all by his lonesome, now can we?”

The struggle was clear on his face, plain as the sky was blue and the moon preferred to appear at night. He glanced from the stall where Yashu resided, happily munching on strands of hay, back to Ashelm. “I’ll stay,” he muttered, his entire body sagging with the words like it caused him physical exhaustion.

“That’s a good lad,” Ashelm teased with a wink. “Still want a gift?”

“No,” he mumbled, clearly still throwing a bit of a fit. “Just go and leave me alone.”

Ashelm was far too used to being alone, but seeing Namid so upset was not a pleasant experience when he was so vocal about his unhappiness. “Well, I’ll bring you one anyhow. Remember to—”

“Stay inside and not talk to anyone,” Namid snapped. “I understand. I’m not stupid.”

“Never said that you were,” he sighed and tried to shake off the slight pang of annoyance. _He’s probably used to getting whatever he wants by throwing a tantrum._ Certainly, he wasn’t the kind of bedwarmer that was beaten at every turn for opening his mouth—or he would be far less obvious with that attitude of his—and surely hadn’t been deprived of basic necessities as punishment. “I’ll be back in two days at the most, porcupine. Take this time to rest.”

══════════════════

The capitol was a city of architectural innovation with tall, unusually large buildings and rounded roofs. Windows made of glass rather than blocked off by wood or cloth, tall staircases that winded around the side of buildings all the way to the third or fourth floors. Some even had access to the roof, where clothes or leather hung to dry in the sun. As beautiful as the city was—and as rare as it was for him to visit it—Ashelm had little time for admiration. He knew exactly where he needed to go to seek out answers, a rather unassuming bar in the less wealthy district. People in bars always seemed to know someone. Or they knew someone who knew someone else. It was an endless cycle. Heads turned as he walked inside, which he promptly ignored in favor of walking over to the bar table, and folding his arms on top of it.

His gaze met the bartender’s, who looked him up and down and scowled. “You’re not a regular. What do you want?”

“No, not a regular. I’m looking for a woman by the name of Tempest,” he said with an easy smile. “Any idea where I can find her?”

The man snorted. “Not in this bar. She prefers the one uptown, near the market district. Get lost if you aren’t going to buy anything.”

Ashelm put his hands up, gave the man a quick thanks for his cooperation, and left the bar. He walked to the market district, hands in his trouser pockets, and located the bar in question. However, the bartender there wasn’t much help, either.

“Nah, that lady stopped coming here months ago. Didn’t like all the travelers that stopped by,” the woman behind the counter said with a shake of her head. “You’re better off looking at Sal’s place. He might know.”

Sal’s place was in a residential area, right next to where it connected to the busy market streets. As it turned out, this was a much better place to search. It was a very small bar, but it was packed full of people. Every table and inch of space was taken up by brawny men or shifty-eyed women, drinking and chatting to their heart’s content.

“If you’re looking for that woman, you’ve found the right place,” Sal said as he put down a glass of ale for another customer. “She’s over at that table. Here, take a glass on the house. You’ll need it if you want to talk to her.”

Ashelm supposed he should have been offended by that, but he was mostly happy to have a free drink. He thanked the man, took his mug, and turned toward the table in question. Only one person sat there—a tall, rather pretty woman. A bit muscular, with hair cut short, and golden earrings that glittered at her ears. He approached casually, without concern. “I hear most people in the know call you Tempest,” Ashelm hummed as he held his mug between two hands and sat down across from her.

“Just an alibi for the more unsavory types,” she snorted and took a large swig of her ale. Didn’t bat an eyelash at his sudden appearance or question his presence. She drank like a true woman, without any concern for the men around her, and he could appreciate her no-nonsense attitude. “Name’s Camira. At least what I prefer to go by. I assume you’re here for business, if you’re asking for me by that name.”

Ashelm didn’t know her well, but he rather liked the way she held herself. Respectable, confident, and certainly better than most slave traders or crooks. Appearances could be deceiving, though. “Not exactly _business_. Information is what I’m after, but I’m willing to pay for it, if you’d prefer not to give it freely. I’m simply a wandering merchant.”

“Depends on what you want to know, merchant.”

“Word has it you went north not too long ago and found slaves from across the Skeleton Sea to sell. Could you tell me about them or the place they came from?”

Camira raised an eyebrow and leaned forward on her elbows, manners forgotten. “Can’t say I was expecting you to ask about _that_. Mind if I ask where you heard that from?”

“A customer. Didn’t catch his name, but he was convinced it was very interesting gossip, and I tend to agree.”

“Well, whoever he got his facts from is wrong.”

Ashelm’s smile tensed a little. If he found out he’d been purposefully lied to, he would be very displeased to hunt the man down for compensation. “How so?”

She stood up, placed her empty mug down on the table, and eyed Ashelm coolly. “Come upstairs with me. I prefer to do business in private.”

Usually he would be a bit more cautious about following a stranger to the top floor of a rickety bar, but Ashelm had been in worse situations, and he was fine with the risk if it meant getting answers. As it turned out, upstairs happened to be a small, single room, of which a heavy was closed to provide them more privacy. The window, too, Camira shut and latched. Not one for giving a potential eavesdropper an easy route, it seemed.

“I suppose it’s difficult to keep secrets in my business, but I’m happy to hear that the unreliability of word of mouth has done its job well.” Camira took a seat on the edge of a stone chair and procured a pipe from one of her pockets. “Why do you want to know the truth, merchant? Gossip is just gossip. Most people leave it at that. They certainly don’t seek out the source of that gossip.”

Ashelm debated on what to tell her. It was important not to place too much trust in anyone, but lying was not a wise decision in the presence of someone who was an unknown force. She could have plenty of dangerous connections who, at the drop of a dime, would pose a threat to him if necessary. “I may have met one the people you escorted to Carran,” he explained quietly. “At least, I have a feeling they’re connected. I can’t say for sure. That’s why I’m here.”

“You met one? That’s surprising.” Camira breathed out a puff of smoke and took another long drag. “No sense in lying, I guess. The truth is, I didn’t bring over any slaves. They were refugees.”

“My customer said the place was heavily guarded. No way in or out.” It was already not what Ashelm expected, so perhaps Namid and these people were not related after all. “Is that true?”

“You bet your ass it is. Place is a fucking fortress. Walls taller than any building in Carran, guards crawling all over the fucking place, armed to the tooth. I’m damn lucky I didn’t lose my skin.” Smoke billowed from her lips and nostrils, made her look hazy and distorted. “I’ve heard it’s a massive country, but I only saw a small portion of it. Locals call it Elysri.”

“Elysri,” he repeated, a strange name that felt odd on his tongue. He couldn’t recall a single mention of it anywhere, in gossip, news or any written texts. “I’ve never heard of it.”

How could such a large country go unnoticed by the Carran Empire? If not for the Skeleton Sea, perhaps they would have more communication with those on the other side. Still, it seemed like they would have found one another eventually, whether as allies or enemies. To have never heard of it was altogether a mystery on its own.

“You wouldn’t have. They don’t deal with outsiders. That wall I mentioned? It surrounds their _entire country_. The only thing outside of it are the docks and even those are under guard.”

“As much as I’d like to know why, I assume you don’t have those answers.”

She leaned back in her seat. “You’d be right. I have no clue.”

That answered some questions, but created many others. At least it seemed Ashelm was growing closer to the truth. There was more to discuss. “So how did you get in? And why bother?”

“Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it? A strange fellow approached me one day in Zarrin. Looked very odd. Dyed his hair black, but he was pale as can be. He offered me a job. Head north to his homeland, Elysri, and escort a ship full of his people to Carran. In exchange, he would pay me five hundred thousand gold.”

Ashelm nearly choked on nothing at all. “ _Five hundred thousand gold?_ No one but the emperor has that kind of money.”

Camira raised one hand and waved it, as if to emphasize the power of her words. “This man did. He even paid me half of it up front, considering I thought he was full of shit. So I take my ship and crew across the water—hell of a journey, by the way, just awful—to this secret, hidden dock. There’s a shit ton of people waiting for me there, all dressed up to hide their faces, but they were… It was like looking at a bunch of ghosts. They gave me the creeps.”

Sounded a bit familiar, although Ashelm had the opposite opinion. “White hair, pale skin, amber eyes?”

“You got it,” she confirmed with a nod. “Definitely nothing like our people or those from Turril.”

It was a lot of information to process, but so far, Ashelm gathered that those from Elysri had left willingly of their own accord. A friend or ally of some description had paid a slave trader to smuggle them past Carran’s borders. Made enough sense. Why they wanted to leave was up in the air and anyone’s guess. “How many people were there?”

“Hm, about thirty, I’d say? All of them looked about twenty summers or so. Mostly men, but there were some women.”

All Ashelm needed was one last question answered. “Where did you take them?”

“Nowhere special,” Camira answered nonchalantly. “I sold them back to the people they were running from in Elysri.”

Ice formed in Ashelm’s blood and every muscle in his body went stiff. He didn’t know if it was anger or pure, unfiltered shock that hit him harder. He struggled and failed to keep it out of his voice. “You did _what?_ ”

“You look surprised. I’m a slave trader, Mr. Merchant Man, not a hero,” the woman grinned. “I got my payment from that odd fellow and wound up with three times his original offer by the time I sold almost all of them. I’ll be sitting pretty for the rest of my life.”

Ashelm’s mouth snapped closed. He couldn’t ask her why she did it—that was a stupid question. Power and wealth were all valid reasons to those criminally inclined. No, that wasn’t what he wanted to say, anyhow. He took a deep breath and offered her a smile. “Well, guess I can’t blame you for doing what you thought was more beneficial. At any rate, I think I have all the information I need, so I’ll be on my way.”

As he stood up, so did Camira, and her smile was poisonous. “Not so fast, my friend. You also have information that I need. I think it’s only fair you pay me back for my willingness to speak,” she said, sickly sweet.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any information that would interest you, Camira. I’m just a merchant, after all.” Without taking his eyes off her, he took a step backward, toward the window. There was nowhere to run. She stood between him and the door. Downstairs, her men filled the tables, at her beck and call.

“Really? Because I think you do. As a matter of fact, why not tell me about the little runaway you met? I said I sold most of them back. All but one. Nasty, naughty little boy. Slipped out of his cage and jumped off my ship.”

_Namid._

Nothing in life was certain, but Ashelm had a feeling the runaway and Namid were one and the same. No matter what, he wasn’t about to tell Camira where the man was, or anything about him. He shrugged his shoulders, hands behind his back. Tried to find the latch without looking at it. “Actually, I don’t think I know anyone who fits your description. I must have been mistaken. Silly me, am I right? I’ve been told I’m a bit daft.”

“You do seem a bit daft. There’s nowhere for you to run, you know. The capitol is mine. Hell, most of Carran is _mine._ And if it isn’t mine yet, then it will be soon.” She took one step forward; Ashelm pressed his back flat against the shuttered window. “So come quietly, tell me what I want to know, and maybe I’ll give you a merciful death. I’d hate to have to send more bandits after you.”

Was there anyone who _wasn’t_ out for his blood? The men from the brothel, the bandits, and now Camira. All tied to her, he assumed, which gave him a somewhat decent explanation. Ashelm felt the lock slip free in his hand. With enough fiddling, he was able to loosen the wooden block, and gripped it tightly in his hand. “That does sound lovely. It really does. Thing is, though, that I already have plans in place. You know how it is. People to see, things to sell. Very busy.” He stalled until he could see the frustration come over Camira’s face, when at last he flung the wooden block at her.

It was barely enough to distract her. She batted it away like one might a fly, but it was all Ashelm really needed. They weren’t very far up. For the second time in a month, Ashelm flung himself out the window, and landed unsteadily on his feet. People in the street gawked at him, mouths open, and he gave a small wave.

“Pleasure doing business with you, hope to never see you again,” he called up and was off. Broke into a sprint first, then a full-on run, even to the sound of Camira cursing after him and her men in hot pursuit. They must have been waiting for a signal or in disguise as passersby outside the bar.

“Seize him!” Someone shouted behind him, a deep boom.

A fight was not an option in such crowded, close quarters surrounded by innocent civilians. All Ashelm needed was to get them off his trail and he would be out of the fire, for at least a small time. He ducked beneath a man’s vegetable wagon, accidentally spilling a couple spiky, green heads of cabbage in the process and sending them rolling along the dusty feet of the public. “Sorry!”

“Hey, watch it! You’ll pay for trampling my cabbages!” The man snarled after him, but his threat was nothing compared to those of his attackers in hot pursuit.

Admittedly, he heard quite a few promises of castration, whipping and the like, none of which would fit into his unbelievably busy schedule if he had any say about it. Through the crowd, he tried to weave and dance around pedestrians in the hopes of losing his pursuers, but they kept up to him like moths following a flame. At the first opportunity, he ducked into a nearby alleyway, and searched for a place to hide. Found one, behind a crate filled with garbage, and briefly wrinkled his nose before he dove head first into the pile. The stench of rot and garbage was enough to make him gag, but he kept quiet and held his breath, ensured that every part of him was covered.

“Where’d he go?” One man snarled.

Another spat, “He turned down this way. Where’s this alley lead?”

“Opens up into a few different streets. We’ll split up. Camira’s gonna kill us if he gets away,” a third thug added. “First one to find the little shit gets free drinks on me.”

“I’ll drink to his death,” the first man agreed.

Their footsteps grew fainter, further down the alley, and all was silent except for the drone of the bustling city. Ashelm didn’t rise from his disgusting hiding place just yet. He waited another minute. Two, then three. At last, when he rose from the bin, he sucked in a deep breath of mostly fresh air.

_What has my life been reduced to, rolling about in city muck?_

Better than dead, he supposed. Although he would have to burn his clothing—he doubted the smell would ever come out of the fabric. Now, if only he could find a way out of the city without being caught, he would truly be a free man once more.

The way out of the city, as it was, happened to be as equally disgusting as his first hiding spot. No one ever ventured into the capitol’s sewers, which made it the perfect route to travel. The pipes were rather straightforward and opened up directly outside of the city, far enough from the gated entrance that he didn’t have to worry too much about being seen.

Clean air was a gift from the heavens, truly, and his foul mood was almost as foul as he was certain he smelled.

It was a stroke of luck that Ashelm stumbled upon a small, nearly dried up puddle on his way back to Kivarek. Not much, but he wouldn’t complain. He stripped down to nothing, scrubbed himself off as best he could, and did the same to his clothing. Even after all that, he wouldn’t call himself clean, but it was certainly better than his previous state of disarray. Once his clothes were somewhat dry, he dressed again, and walked back toward the proper trail. He traveled alongside it, though not directly on it. Never knew who he might bump into by accident.

Despite his best efforts to move as fast as he could, it took Ashelm roughly a day to reach the city, give or take. The sky was turning pink with the morning sun by the time he reached the inn. He received a small look of disgust from the innkeeper and a wrinkled nose or two, but at this point, his own nose was numb to the scent. Truthfully, though it was hard to admit, he was looking forward to seeing Namid again. They would have a lot to talk about—and perhaps it would be a difficult, unhappy conversation—but his attitude and habit of maintaining a steady amount of clever banter was unmatched. He was, oddly enough, an unwaveringly constant presence.

Namid was in bed, not quite asleep, when Ashelm opened the door to their shared room. He sprang up, at first alarmed, then more relaxed when his eyes met Ashelm’s. There was surprise there, a bit of brightness in his otherwise tense demeanor, and then it was gone. Replaced by irritation and a deep scowl.

“And here I was just getting used to the peace and quiet,” muttered the man with a heavy sigh as he fell back onto the sheets.

“What, no hello kiss? No hug?” Ashelm teased, as he immediately began to ditch his clothing once the door was closed. It was hard to keep a jovial attitude with the truth spinning around in his head, but he managed.

“Ugh, you smell like a _sewer,_ ” he cried as he lifted a hand to cover his nose and pinched the bridge. “Why do you smell like a sewer?”

The moment the door closed, Ashelm was stripping down out of his soiled clothing. First his shirt, which he tossed to the ground, then he unfastened the belt around his trousers. “Probably because I’ve been crawling through one. Very unpleasant, let me tell you. If you think I smell bad, you have no clue how the sewer smelled.”

Namid looked green and moved as far away as he could on the small bed. “I think I can imagine perfectly well,” he muttered. “Why were you crawling in a sewer? Other than the fact that you’re a piece of shit.”

He paused, down to his underclothes, and rolled his eyes. “Har har, very funny. I needed a quick escape. You and I are going to have a chat after I bathe.”

Suspicion darkened Namid’s face. “Talk about what?”

“I said _after_ I bathe. Until then, do as you like.”

Ashelm piled his dirty clothes into the far corner and headed into the adjacent room meant for bathing. It was nothing more than a crude pump where he could draw water, a drain, and a bench with a bucket placed on top. There were worse places to clean up, though, and he was thankful the inn provided soap and shampoo. He scrubbed his skin down so hard that it reddened under his touch, until he felt clean enough to rinse. His hair, though, took several washes before he thought the smell was gone at last. For a moment, he simply enjoyed the cool water against his skin, and wondered how he would broach the topic of Elysri with Namid. If he learned anything about the man at all in the time they’d been together, he knew exactly how temperamental and quick to jump into an argument he could be. Best to get it out of the way sooner rather than later, if Camira and her gang were going to do their damndest to track them down.

A plan was already forming in his head. First, they would discuss the matter of where Namid originally came from and the truth behind his running away, then they would arrange to disguise themselves better. Perhaps a bit of hair dye for Namid and a new haircut, different clothing. Then they could head away from Carran, if necessary. Turril would be a good place. They kept slaves, but only for labor, and bedwarmers were outlawed. As Ashelm dried his hair with a towel and pulled on a pair of loose breeches, he figured that might be their best plan of action.

Every single thought in his mind evaporated into smoke as he returned to the main room and his jaw nearly hit the floor. There, in the center of the bed, Namid was sprawled entirely naked. One hand behind his head, the other casually resting atop his soft belly. Any words Ashelm could have said fled his brain as every bit of blood went immediately south. His gaze drifted over smooth, pale skin, from perky nipples to a cute belly button, and even further still.

_Is this a dream?_

It had to be. Namid was vicious, hated his flirtatious quips, and rejected all attempts for physical contact. It was so out of the ordinary that he couldn’t possibly be real.

“Are you going to stand there and stare all day, Ashelm, or are you going to come over here?” Namid said, in the same irritable tone as ever, though now it held an entirely different connotation.

“I, uh… I don’t...” He wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t want to keep staring at the man’s pretty cock, out for display between his open thighs? Or that he didn’t want to see Namid naked at all? Because neither of those things were true, if the way he felt himself stir in his breeches was any indication.

“You don’t want me?” Namid’s lips turned down in an over exaggerated pout, as he moved the hand behind his head to his bottom lip. Pressed his thumb against it and widened his eyes, almost unconsciously. “You don’t find me attractive, is that it? I thought you liked me.”

“That’s not—that’s not it,” he tripped over his own tongue to speak. Shame on him for drooling like a dog, but it had simply been far too long since he was able to ogle a beautiful man so freely. Ever since he gave Namid a hand some time ago—literally—he hadn’t been able to sneak away to relieve himself, either with the help of a willing individual or his own hand. They were almost always together, in the same room or out in the open, and Carran was a dangerous place. Not good conditions for fooling around, even by himself.

“Then what is it?” The man slid the hand on his belly up to his chest, as if the brush of his thumb over one of his own nipples was entirely innocent. “Oh, are you upset you didn’t get to undress me? I’m sorry. I can put my clothes back on for you.”

“Namid,” Ashelm sighed and took a deep breath, pinched the bridge of his nose, and resolutely closed his eyes. _Don’t get hard just from looking at him. Don’t even think about it._ Stronger men than himself failed to control their own bodily instincts. “Namid, _what the fuck are you doing?_ ”

A real frown replaced that playful pout. He didn’t move to cover himself up, but his voice took in a particularly sour note. “I’m waiting for you to fuck me,” he said, as if it were obvious. Then blinked and raised an eyebrow. “Unless you want me to fuck you?”

The thought of fucking Namid—or even being fucked by him—was enough to force him to cover his face with his hands. Gods and goddesses, he was hard, and this conversation didn’t make it any better. “Namid, why would I fuck you? Why would _you_ fuck _me?_ ”

“Because I like you,” he purred, soft and sweet. “You’re handsome, you’re nice to me, you let me name Yashu. And I’m lonely. No one’s touched me in ages. I’m used to being touched all the time.”

“You’ve never liked me flirting with you. Or touching you. Why now? What changed?”

“Nothing’s changed. I was pretending not to like it. Playing hard to get, as they say. I thought it would make you want me more.” Namid sat up, moved across the bed to be closer. He pushed himself flush against Ashelm’s body, face to face, far too close for comfort. Arms around his neck, lips close to his cheek. “Why are you questioning me when you should be enjoying yourself?”

“Because I have a sneaky suspicion that you’re up to no good. This is out of character and weird, even for you. I don’t believe a single word that’s come out of your mouth.” He put his hands on the man’s shoulders and pushed him away gently, without much force. “You’re attractive and yes, I would love to fuck you until you forget your own name, but I have a feeling this is all one big act. You’re faking it. This is all one big lie. You want something from me.”

“I don’t want anything except your cock,” Namid argued with a sniff, brushing his lips so softly against his skin and sending shivers down his spine. “I’ll suck you, if that’s what you want. Or let you fuck my mouth. Anything you want.”

He sounded so desperate to have Ashelm give up and agree, which was more suspicious than anything else so far. What game was he playing at? Why did he keep insisting on this, pushing the topic so far that it was almost painful to listen to him beg? He always found Ashelm’s risqué comments to be disgusting or unenjoyable. Now, he seemed all too desperate for them, and for more.

“No,” he decided and grabbed the boy’s hands, removed them from his body and pushed him back. Not roughly, but enough that he hoped the other man would get the point. “I’m not fucking you at all, in any way.”

Namid frowned, anger fueling his scowl, and crossed his arms over his bare chest. “Oh, so you only want me when I don’t want you? Is that it?”

“No, that’s not it! Don’t put words in my mouth. I don’t want you when you’re not acting like yourself.”

“And how would you know if I am not acting like myself? You hardly know me,” snarled the smaller man, a rough edge to his voice. “You don’t know me at all. You—you take me away from that stupid brothel, you do not fuck me when I’m drugged out and begging for you, you give me food, let me name your horse, protect me from bandits but—but you won’t take me with you. You want to get rid of me. Talk about not wanting to keep me around anymore.”

It all left him in a fast, heavily accented jumble, and Ashelm realized it was because of the tears that streamed down his cheeks. Strained his words and made them hard to understand. He had no time to process them, as Namid kept talking.

“You do not want me around anymore.” Namid moved forward again, this time to bury his face in Ashelm’s chest. “You only came back for Yashu. Just—just fuck me. Please. I will be good, I promise, _please._ I will let you fuck me anytime you want. Do not send me away, please. I don’t want to go back to working at a brothel. Please, I’ll do whatever you want, _please_.”

Oh. _Oh._ Ashelm understood, at least a little bit better, what was going on here. He told Namid he wanted to talk, didn’t say what, and the boy had jumped to the absolute worst conclusion his mind could conjure up. How being fucked against his will was better than being sent away, he didn’t know, and didn’t really want to try to figure it out. He supposed that was what Namid was used to, that he was so accustomed to it he would force himself into it for what he assumed was the most beneficial outcome.

“Namid. No, don’t hide your face from me. Look at me, porcupine.” Ashelm took the boy’s chin in his hand, guided his face up. He was as beautiful as the day they met. Tears, snot and all. “I’m not going to send you away or give you to someone else. I said I’d take you somewhere safe and I meant it. That wasn’t what I wanted to talk about. I’m sorry if I scared you. You—you don’t need to fuck me to get me to do nice things for you.”

“You will not keep me if I don’t,” he argued, shaking his head, turning his face into the hand on his cheek. “I know—I know I’m mean to you and say nasty things, but… But I can be good. I can be good. I promise.”

“You _are_ good. I like it when you argue with me. You have no idea how much I appreciate your attitude. If I wanted to find a pushover who obeyed my every word without any sass, I would. There are plenty of them.”

“Why will you not have sex with me, then? If you like the way I am so much. You find me attractive. I know you do. And...and I owe you. For everything.” It sounded like it pained Namid to admit it.

“You owe me three favors, not your body,” Ashelm reminded him. “And I’m not going to use those favors to take advantage of you. I’d much rather have a willing partner, as I’ve mentioned. My keeping you around is not directly tied to whether or not you offer me your particular services, despite what you may think.”

“Oh.”

There was a moment of silence, where Namid seemed to sag in a combination of exhaustion and confusion. He stood there, so close, naked, face stained with tears—a strange, sad sight.

With no intentions other than talking, Ashelm put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and guided him over to the bed. Grabbed the fur blanket and wrapped it around Namid’s shoulders before he took a seat. “Come here,” he said, holding his arms out. “And we’ll talk about this. No lying, no beating around the bush, none of that nonsense.”

Namid hesitated, took a moment to stare at him, and slowly made his way over. Crawled into his open arms, into his lap, and rested against his chest. The erection Ashelm had been struggling against was still there beneath the boy’s plush bottom, but he resolutely ignored it. Unlike some men, he knew he wouldn’t die if he didn’t get his release. It was uncomfortable, not lethal.

For a minute, Ashelm merely held him, and let him calm down from the high of his panic. One hand on the back of his head, the other between his shoulder blades. When his breathing slowed and his tears seemed to stop, he spoke. “Do you want to stay and travel with me, Namid?”

“Yes,” came the soft answer, muffled by his shoulder. He felt the vibrations against his skin. “Will you let me stay?”

“Of course. Do you really want me to have sex with you or are you just trying to please me?”

That question took a bit longer for him to answer. “I do not know. I do like you, even though you’re annoying. I...think I would like it, if you touched me. Maybe.”

“I need a solid answer before I do anything. You don’t need to decide right now. Just think about it.”

“We don’t have to?”

“No, we don’t have to,” Ashelm promised. They didn’t have an emotional connection, so even if they did fuck, it would be purely physical. But either way, it wasn’t a necessity. A perk, certainly.

“Why help me only for favors?”

“That’s just the way I do things,” he chuckled, running his fingers through silky strands of hair. Namid smelled like the inn’s soap, but also like freshly washed blankets, or perhaps like the wind on a clear summer day. Fresh, clean. “If you don’t have money, I take things of equal value. If you don’t have any belongings, I’ll take valuable information. If you have nothing to tell, I’ll accept a favor with no payment. Standard business practice.”

Namid sighed against his skin. “Please do not leave me again. I hate it. I hate being left behind.”

“I know. I’m sorry. About what I wanted to talk about—that’s what I left to find out. Don’t freak out on me.” Ashelm probably shouldn’t have started with that—telling people not to freak out, like telling them not to panic, usually had the opposite effect. He rubbed gentle circles against the boy’s back to soothe any tension that might appear with his next words. “Are you from Elysri?”

Namid did tense up. He tensed, sprang up, and stared at Ashelm like he’d grown several heads or started breathing fire. His face filtered through several emotions. Anger, shock, panic, dismay. “You—how—how do you know?”

“Gossip, at first. I followed the trail until I had more tangible information. Also, I may have found the woman who wanted to sell you back to your country. Which is an explanation I’d like to hear. Was the story you first told me true? Did you lie to me?”

Out of all the emotions Namid cycled through, fear was the one that seemed to stick the easiest. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t… It was not a lie. Not...entirely. I did run away from my master, back in Elysri.”

“Someone important enough to hunt you down, pay a slave trader to get you back, and generally put their foot into Carran despite never having contact with my people before?” Ashelm hummed with raised eyebrows. There was no other explanation for why any of this was happening. Most masters wouldn’t bother with a runaway slave, not to this extent.

“He is a noble,” Namid blurted out, fingers tightening against the edge of the blanket in his hands. “Of my country. I am sorry I lied. Please, I cannot go back there. I would rather you kill me now.”

“A noble,” Ashelm repeated, both irritated and unsurprised by the revelation. “Makes sense. You act like a noble’s spoiled pet. No offense.”

“I take much offense to that,” he snarked.

“I’d apologize, but then I’d be lying. Anyway, I’m not going to let them take you back. Besides, they’d kill me either way, and I like keeping my head on my shoulders.”

There was no way that Camira wouldn’t kill him. If he gave Namid to her, she’d slaughter him afterwards, and she would do the same to take the man forcefully from his care. So no matter what he chose, he was a liability, and the hole he found himself in was too deep to climb out of. For better or worse, they were stuck together.

And oddly enough, he was okay with that.

_Perhaps I am an adventurer after all._

“So you’ll protect me?” Namid asked the question with big, round eyes. Probably playing it up a bit. “If they come for me, you won’t let them take me?”

Ashelm grinned down at him. “Of course I won’t let them. You still owe me three favors. Well, two. I have something to ask of you.”

Those eyes narrowed, dark and untrusting. “And what is it?”

“From now on, you’ll be completely honest with me. No more lies. If you want something, if you need something, you’ll be open about it. And I’ll do the same for you. Deal?”

Once again, with the same bright eyes and pouty lips, Namid considered the words. Then, he dipped his head down and rested it on Ashelm’s shoulder. “Deal,” he agreed, soft and tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. Always remember to be nice to cabbage merchants and have a nice day.


	6. A New Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Warnings: Explicit language, mentions of violence, abuse, nudity and sexual themes.

╭─────────╮

❀ - 𝓝𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓭 - ❀

╰─────────╯

Deserts were stupid.

It was ridiculous that any person with a functioning brain in their skull would ever attempt to settle a wasteland of sand, sand and more sand. The fact that people were able to survive in a place without rain, fertile fields of crops or abundant sources of water was enough to baffle Namid for three lifetimes over. How did they do it? Where did most of their food and resources come from? How did they tend for their crops with so little water? He thought to ask, sometimes, but rarely did he voice his curiosities. Not due to a lack of desire for more knowledge—he was ready to learn at all times of the day. It simply happened that his only source of said knowledge was a tad annoying to speak to on regular occasions. Blunt, rude, disgustingly perverted at the best of times.

Never in all his life had Namid met a man so hyper-focused on his body’s basest needs and yet so unwilling to indulge in them at the same time, which was saying something. He worked with men who only sought one release after another but Ashelm’s flirtatious nature put them all to shame. Given that he never once touched himself or Namid, he supposed it could have been far worse. If all he had to put up with were tasteless comments about his ass or how talented Ashelm thought himself to be in bed, then perhaps he was truly lucky.

It helped that he wasn’t ugly to look at. The people here in Carran were far different from those he knew back home, but they were attractive in their own right. Dark-haired, every last one of them, and dark-skinned. Many kept their hair long and braided, had brown eyes framed by short lashes and flat, broad noses. Ashelm, too, carried many of those traits. His hair was dark and cut short, his skin a few shades too dark to be considered bronze, with a nose that matched his people’s. In all honesty, it was his eyes that set him apart from the others. Narrower, angled slightly downward, his irises bright green. They looked out of place among the people who passed them by.

He liked to look at them. _The eyes are the gateway to the soul,_ his people often said. Not that he would ever be caught dead saying so. Ashelm was pretty, for a menace. Walked with his head held too high, his posture spoke too loudly of a man who held himself in high regard.

 _I did see him rip more than one man apart with a whip,_ Namid recalled as they walked down one of Kivarek’s many crowded streets. That had been a terrifying experience. Too much blood, too much fear inside his own chest. Still, he thought Ashelm could stand to be a bit more humble. If he could learn to give Namid more freedom (Ashelm allowed him to shadow him in his daily tasks today, after a brief argument), then he could certainly learn to lose some pride. 

Their day consisted of speaking with random townsfolk about the bizarre items Ashelm carried in his bags, of which Namid never bothered to ransack. He looked once while the man was fast asleep, in search of food, but found nothing of interest. The majority of it seemed like a mishmash of dross. Old, withered things that belonged in the trash and not in a bag. He sniffed a few bottles, found most to be unpleasant or sour in scent, and didn’t even begin to have the slightest idea what to do with the collection of yellowed, stripped animal bones. Apparently, Ashelm was mentally a hoarder, given the sheer number of bags he owned filled with these frivolous items.

To Namid’s dismay, some of the garbage was sold for coin, while a few items were traded for other goods. Little glass bottles of mysterious fluids, finely crushed powders, dried leaves wrapped tightly in cloth that were still so fragrant they made him sneeze. He understood herbs for healing—knew how to put them to good use—but none of this seemed relevant in the well being of anyone’s health.

Ashelm boasted a different opinion. “This will cure your husband’s cough right up, ma’am. I assure you. Two drops, once a day, with tea or water should do the trick.”

The young woman who stood before them, with a nose wrinkled in slight distaste and hands wrapped tightly around her purse, seemed to ease at his words. She’d been wary of his initial approach and claimed she would rather speak to her usual healer (of which Namid agreed wholeheartedly), but those uncertainties were fast fading.

“And you’re certain it will help? The cough’s just dreadful. He’s been up all night with it for days.” The worry was deep in her face, even through the layers of fabric along her hood.

“Oh, absolutely. I swear it on Virdis himself.” He held a hand to his chest, smile large and bright. Too much so. Offered the small vile to the woman with an unnecessary flourish. “It’s all I use for myself when I’m ill with a bad cough.”

Who Virdis was, Namid had no clue. One of the many gods or goddesses of Carran, he figured. They had far too many to keep track of. For the sun, moon and stars, for health and wealth, for death and life. Ashelm told him of a few, the ones he found most interesting. There was only one goddess and one god back in his homeland and they would weep if they could see how Ashelm swindled this poor, naive woman out of a handful of golden coins.

“My blessings to your husband, ma’am, and may the sun shine bright upon your horizon.” With a bow, Ashelm placed the coins in his purse, and came to collect him. His grin was still in place, a bit lopsided on the right and far too large.

If he expected praise or congratulations, Namid was eager to disappoint him. _How odd that you no longer serve to please._ He would have been punished for such behavior only a month ago. Today, he was able to sit with his arms crossed, face set and gaze leveled from his seat. All without fear of harm. They were nearly the same height now and he could look the man in the eye, no reason to fear his wrath. “You’re a horrible man. That poor woman’s husband is ill and you’re giving her fake medicine.”

“Fake medicine? Why, I would _never._ My products are of the highest quality, little porcupine.” He never showed anger for the insults. Not a single hint of rage, no disgust. Never raised a hand to strike or his whip to teach him respect.

A small, quiet part of Namid’s mind was endlessly grateful for it. He didn’t know what he would do if Ashelm decided to act the way his previous master did. _‘Master’_ didn’t seem like an appropriate term for him. Ashelm neither purchased nor legally owned him by Carran’s or Elysri’s laws, yet he cared for him, and held his life within the palms of his hands. That he happened to be a lenient, untraditional master didn’t make him any less of one. It was a truth he greatly disliked the thought of; he couldn’t deny it, however. By all stands and definitions, Ashelm was his new master, for better or worse.

Even if he was a lying piece of shit.

“So what was in the vial? It looked an awful lot like sugar to me.”

His grin never slipped. It changed, transformed, and molded itself into a smaller smile like the shifting phases of the moon. “It _is_ medicine,” he said and leaned his hip against the barrel. A strand of dark hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. Up close in the sunlight, the scars along his cheek were rosy pink. “A cheaper, easier to find variety than the kind healers offer. Same effect, same price, higher abundance. I’m not cruel enough to sentence a sick man to death. Have some faith in me.”

“I have faith in your ability to bring me food,” Namid quipped, felt the slight tug of his empty stomach. They’d shared half a pastry between the both of them for breakfast. He was starving.

A laugh burst from him. Loud, raucous. All teeth and noise and raspy breaths. “Does that pretty head of yours think of anything other than food? You’re practically a bottomless pit.”

There was nothing to stop him from showing the full brunt of his attitude. No threat of punishment, no cage to be placed in. It was odd, but he found that it was so easy to get used to. “I think about strangling you in your sleep, sometimes. But then I would have no one to bring me food.”

“Ah, yes. What a dilemma it must be to spare me from death.” Ashelm stood upright and brushed his hand briefly over Namid’s shoulder.

He always did that, lately. After their second deal, the touches started. Small ones. A brush of fingers along his shoulders, a pat to the head, a tap to the forearm when it was time for their walk to come to an end. Gentle as a breeze, innocent, and so bizarrely non-sexual. Namid hadn’t known men of Ashelm’s size and disposition could be capable of doing things for...well, anything other than sex. That always seemed to be the end goal. At least that was the only end goal he could think of. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Ashelm found him attractive, he knew that, and wanted to fuck him. He simply wouldn’t do so without permission and that baffled him by itself. What did permission have to do with anything? It never stopped anyone before. Men knew one motto in this world: _take, fuck, kill_.

Far too much of Namid’s time had been spent trying to figure out the irritating enigma that was Ashelm and his strange fixation on _permission._

“You’ve gone and spaced out on me,” said the man, his hand waved in front of Namid’s face. Fingers waggled, eyes half-lidded. “The heat getting to you?”

“No, but my hunger is,” he huffed. “You promised me food. I see no food.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll get you something to eat. You act as though I never feed you.” A shake of his head, a smile, a chuckle. He found Namid so amusing and it would never make any sense. “Wait right here and you’ll have your precious food.”

Namid would never run away. From the man who taught him that thoughts and feelings were trivial for a whore, yes. He ran away from him. Would do it again in a heartbeat, if given the chance. From Ashelm, though? He couldn’t fathom why he would ever want to leave the man’s side. Annoying as he may be, he was...gentle. Kind-hearted. Sweet, even. Fed him, allowed him to bathe, bought him whatever he liked (with some limitations, for he claimed he wasn’t made of gold), and didn’t choke him on cock each morning.

Yes, he was lucky. It pained him to admit that his life with Ashelm, while dangerous and miserably _hot_ , was somehow brighter than the one he lived before.

A brightness that, as his gaze drifted around the busy market, he recalled not everyone was blessed with. Tucked between two busy vendor stalls was a small, rusted metal cage. A familiar, painful sight that brought back memories he did not want to dwell on. Cold nights, cramped muscles, the foul taste of men on his tongue—he stopped the train of thought there. Wouldn’t allow himself to spiral. At first glance, he thought the cage to be empty. Movement from inside proved otherwise. The shadow beyond the rusted bars was large, distinctly human-shaped. Ashelm said Kivarek was better for whores. Bedwarmers, as he called them. Yet it was clearly not an animal being cruelly confined, in a space much too small to stretch, haphazardly covered by an old rug that hardly blocked out the desert heat. Someone had set a crate on top of the cage, as if the person’s presence inside meant nothing.

No one paid any attention to the boy—Namid thought they must be a boy, from the vague line of their jaw and the angular slope of their shoulders hidden in shadow—and no one stopped to stare. If the treatment went against the city’s laws, no one seemed to care. Or if they did care, they certainly didn’t care enough to make it their business. Why would they? They would see a slave being rightfully punished for disobedience, no matter the truth.

Namid saw it for what it was. Once, he’d been there himself. Knew how sick and twisted a person must be to cage a slave, regardless of the infraction they committed. A magnetic force drew him down from his seat, across the busy road, and closer to the cage. He spared a small glance around. The cage was located between two vendors, tucked away slightly into a short alleyway, and surrounded on both sides by large wooden crates. Which vendor, if either of them, owned the boy was a mystery. To the left, a frail woman sold vegetables and fruits, while a hulking beast of a man haggled with a customer over the price of his fur skins to the right. It must have been the man. He seemed like the heavy-handed, violent type.

Quietly, Namid slipped beneath a sheet of cloth in the way, and crouched down in front of the cage. Down here, it was hot enough to be unbearable.

The man behind the bars was skinny. Underfed, mistreated. He may well have been taller than Namid, but one would never be able to tell from how he curled inward onto himself. Face streaked with grime, dirty feet as bare as the rest of him. Not a single thread to cover up the purple bruises that dotted his body like a mockery of his freckles. No matter what land, language or face, Namid knew a fellow whore when he saw one. They all carried that look in their eyes. _You never had the worst of it,_ he reminded himself with a grimace. _You were lucky._

Lucky or not, there was a simple rule to the life he knew. No matter the land, language or status: whores looked out for one another. They had no one else.

“Hi.” Namid felt the boy’s pain when he flinched as if it were his own. A cold knife straight through the chest. “It’s awfully hot today. Would you like a drink?”

Big, silent brown eyes stared at him. The boy laid so that he was on his side, cheek pressed to the dirty floor, and did little more than blink.

He reached for the water skin on his hip, checked over his shoulder, pushed it through the bars of the cage. “It’s okay,” he whispered and smiled, to give him an extra sense of friendliness.

The boy didn’t speak. He eyed the water skin as though it were a dangerous creature that could bite and made no move to take it.

“It is alright,” he promised and took the water skin back. Uncapped it and tipped it back against his own lips, swallowed less than a mouthful. Then he held it through the bars once more. “It’s only water.”

The suspicion in the boy’s brown eyes faded into shock. His hands shook as he accepted the skin, unsteadily lifted it to his lips. Drank one small mouthful, then another, slowly at first and then faster. So much that it spilled down the corners of his mouth and onto his bare chest.

“Slow down. You’ll make yourself sick.” They were the same words Ashelm had spoken to Namid only a day ago, when he’d done the same as this boy. As the stranger slowed his sips, Namid reached as far as he could into the cage. Ran his fingers through greasy, unkempt strands of hair. It earned him a flinch at first, then those boney shoulders relaxed, and the tension faded into exhaustion.

Long, delicate fingers held the water skin out to him, and Namid was unsurprised to find it mostly empty. He didn’t mind, even if it might get him scolded later. “Thank you,” the boy rasped, throaty and rough. “Thank you, bless you.”

“You wouldn’t bless me if you heard the way I snore,” he tried to joke. For as Ashelm liked to point out (and had done so that very morning), he made the most unholy noises in his sleep that would cause demons to quiver in fear.

That earned him a smile. A small one, but a smile nonetheless. It was beautiful. Uncertain, unsteady, but so soft. Best of all, it was genuine.

Was this the first time in ages that the boy had smiled? A shame if it was. He looked lovely smiling. “Can I know your name? Mine is…”

Should he give up his name? Ashelm always went on about how dangerous it was to do so. Claimed it was too uncommon. Apparently, everything about him was too uncommon to properly blend in. Back in Elysri, that would have been a good thing. Here, it was a death sentence.

“Mine is Namid,” he whispered.

The boy opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Iyumu,” he said, just as softly.

“That’s a lovely name.” The conversation was pleasant, if a bit stilted. Namid knew it couldn’t last long. Soon, he would be forced to leave by Ashelm’s endless desire to be constantly in motion, or perhaps by Iyumu’s own unkind master. The thought of leaving him behind, to suffer alone in this rusted cage, brought a sour taste to his mouth. Words danced on the tip of his tongue, spoken to him what felt like ages ago, even if it had truly been less than a month. He shouldn’t speak them aloud. His heart was not weak— _he_ was not weak. Punishment seemed preferable to the pain of abandoning Iyumu to his cruel fate.

_Punishment, secrecy, safety. Damn it all._

“How would you like to leave this place and never return?”

Iyumu’s eyes flew open, wide as little brown moons. Matted strands of sweaty hair bounced as he violently shook his head. “I—I could never,” he pleaded, his gaze flickered around them. “I must wait for...for my master to return.”

Namid recalled a time not so long ago when he also feared angering his master. Once upon a time, when he still had the energy to bow his head and pretend to be the perfect little whore. He couldn’t blame Iyumu for being obedient to a fault. _It’s all we know._

“Your master will never hurt you again,” he promised, the words soft and determined. He would not leave this spot without him. Perhaps he couldn’t help every slave he met, but this one… He could help Iyumu. “We’ll run away and never look back.”

“I—I can’t—”

“You _can._ It’ll be easy once I get you out of this cage.” How Namid would break him out, he wasn’t quite sure yet. That part of the plan he hadn’t thought through. There must have been a way to pick the lock. Surely, it couldn’t be too terribly complicated. He broke the lock on plenty of his own cages from inside. Now, if he could only find a sharp, thin object to jam inside the lock…

A hand jerked him backward by the hood of his cloak. The fabric pulled taut around his throat and a breathless sound of surprise left his lungs, but it was smothered by indignation. It was not a rough motion, but it startled the sound right out of him. He kicked and squirmed instinctively, ready for a fight, to whip around and snarl like an animal—

“I believe sneaking off is the exact opposite of _staying put,_ ” a smooth, familiar voice filled his ears.

All at once, Namid’s struggles ceased and he froze. Slowly turned his head to meet Ashelm’s sharp green eyes, a small cloth parcel held in one hand. He opened his mouth to snap out a demand to be let go, but was beaten to it.

“Please, sir… It was—it was my fault, sir. I…I was so thirsty, sir, I waved him over. Don’t be cross with him sir, please, I beg of you.” The soft words came from inside the cage, where Iyumu was bent at the waist, an ungraceful bow that he could hardly manage inside the small confines. At this angle, Namid could see the dark ink of a brand across his lower back, marred by thick scars of lashings long healed and bruises yellowed with time. “Punish me, sir, I deserve it! Don’t be cross with him, _please_.”

If Ashelm’s eyebrows rose any further, Namid swore they would grow wings and take flight. Anger was never a default emotion of his, he learned from their short time together, and this situation was no different. Gently, he put Namid back down on his feet, and took his place crouched in front of the cage. That big, stupid smile of his spread across his lips and his words were cotton-soft. “I could never be cross with him for giving you water, sweet one.” The way he spoke was quite soothing to the ears for a perverted merchant. “Nor will I punish you for being thirsty. One does not punish a horse for drinking when it wishes to or curse at the sky when the clouds grow heavy with rain.”

Iyumu kept his forehead pressed to the cage floor and didn’t dare to lift his gaze. “You—you are too kind, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“He has a soft spot for cute boys like us. I imagine it has something to do with his insatiable lust,” Namid said, half a tease and half an insult. Not that Ashelm would find it insulting.

The one bothered most by his words was, surprisingly, Iyumu himself.

“You mustn't speak so flippantly about your master! Forgive him, sir, I am sure he meant no offense to you—”

A laugh filled the merchant’s words. “Nonsense, sweet one. He’s free to speak to me however he wishes to. In fact, I encourage it.”

“You...want him to speak to you that way?”

“Well, _want_ is a strong word. Nevertheless, my wants and wishes are not the most pressing matter at the moment, sweet as you are to be concerned for my companion. I’m more interested in the matter of why you seem to be forgotten in this ghastly corner,” Ashelm said with a wave of his hand to indicate the space in question. “Where is your master? I would like to have a word with him, if I may.”

Iyumu fell into silence. His head rose a slight fraction, eyes wide as discs, his bottom lip unsteady. “I...I do not know, sir. He...he wished for me to remain here until his return.”

Any hint of a smile faded from the taller man’s face and Namid couldn’t help but mirror his expression of slight worry. “Iyumu,” he spoke softly and moved to crouch beside Ashelm, their knees pressed together in the small space. “When was the last time your master came to check on you?”

Ashelm shot him a look, one he ignored solely to put his focus on the battered boy in front of them.

“Three, no...four days ago, I believe. It’s difficult for me to recall, sir. He said I misbehaved, sir, and that he had work to do.”

“Did he, now? Well, I’m sure I can track him down for a quick chat. Porcupine, why don’t you make Iyumu more comfortable? Here,” Ashelm was all smiles once more.

A glint of metal caught his eye. The object he held out to Namid was carefully hidden between their bodies, out of sight from Iyumu. Not a knife, as he suspected at first, but a slender lockpick. He gripped it against his palm, the surface warm from where it had been stored within his pocket.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

Where Ashelm was going, Namid didn’t know, and he didn’t care to ask at the moment. His biggest concern was to free Iyumu. Hopefully, without risk of death, injury or general protest from the imprisoned boy. “You needn’t worry about upsetting him,” he said and smiled at the boy. He used the conversation as a distraction to slip the pick inside of the lock, wiggle it between the gears. “He’s difficult to anger. I’ve talked back to him since the first day we’ve met and he’s never punished me for it.”

Iyumu sucked in a quick breath of shock and shook his head vehemently. “You should not speak to him that way. He’s your master. We...we’re meant to please. How could he be pleased if you talk back to him?”

“Oh, being talked back to certainly pleases him. He’s told me so himself,” he hummed and listened close for the click of the lock. A slight twist to the left, a wiggle to the right—then _click._ The lock sprung free. Namid wanted to rip the door open and pull Iyumu to a safe, shaded spot, and give him the kindness he deserved. No whore should be left to rot behind bars for all to see. Even disobedience toward their masters did not justify such cruelty. It took a very long time for him to understand that and he knew, without needing to ask, that Iyumu time to come to the same conclusion. One day, he would understand that not everyone could be pleased and there was no reason to try.

The thought alone of someone _enjoying being_ back-talked shocked him plenty enough. “He...likes it?”

“Very much, I think. He’s a strange man.” He would wait for Ashelm to return before he opened the cage. Whatever the man was doing, he must have some semblance of a plan. Weird as he may be, he was intelligent enough—enough so that Namid would give him his trust for now.

“And he...he doesn’t hit you?”

God, there was so much hope in that sentence that Namid could practically _feel it._

Namid reached through the bars and held a hand out to the boy. Physical contact was never the best thing for them, but when given by one another, it could be. “No. He’s never hit me or caged me or done anything to me, really. Well, once, but that was a bit of a tricky situation and I wasn’t _hurt_ in the end. Only angry.”

“That sounds nice,” Iyumu whispered and his hand shook as he wrapped his fingers tight around Namid’s. They were longer than his own but bony, delicate where his were chubby.

Was it nice?

There was something inherently nice about being given free will and the power to make his own decisions. In this world, there were certain men that would always stand at the top, and people like Namid or Iyumu would always fall to the bottom. Some whores may be more pampered in comparison to others, but they were all still whores in the end. Pretty, disposable little dolls to shove, fuck and beat around. Barely human. Easily replaced. Their deaths earned no tears, their suffering caused no outcry. In Elysri, they were the lovely baubles and treasures of the rich, meant only to display wealth and power. Carran seemed to care more about the quantity of slaves owned, as even some of the poor seemed to own one or two bedwarmers. They were cheap and in high abundance, captured during border raids or sold by families to pay off extreme debt, as Namid had been told.

It was all a bunch of political nonsense, Ashelm made a note of mentioning each time the subject was brought up, and was only a result of rich bastards posturing for further glory.

“Good news, porcupine,” Ashelm’s cheery voice interrupted his thoughts and caused Iyumu to jump at the sound. He turned to look up at the long-legged man with a curious frown. “Looks like you’ll no longer be left alone while I’m attending business.”

Namid’s eloquent reply was a confused, “Huh?”

“I purchased our lovely friend here from his master. He was more than happy to strike a fair deal with me. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Iyumu.” He moved Namid none too gently aside in order to open the cage.

 _Purchased._ Ashelm had gone off and bought the slave as his own. It was a good thing, surely, for the man to be in much better hands. Yet somehow, it angered Namid that he hadn’t been consulted in that decision. They were traveling companions, so surely a third party would affect that? Not that he would have argued _against_ saving Iyumu by buying him, but he would have liked to be part of the discussion. _At least he won’t have to go back to his bastard of a_ master, he sighed inwardly and took a deep breath.

“Y-you...you b-bought me? I’m...yours?” The awe in his eyes, in his words, was clear as the shining sun above their heads. If he was in better shape, Namid thought he might have flushed pink from head to toe.

True to his disgustingly sly self, Ashelm offered a cheeky grin. “I did. What can I say? I have good taste in men.”

There was a flurry of movement, a blunt metal edge dug into Namid’s leg, and he found himself scoffing. Iyumu had flung the cage door further open and thrown himself at Ashelm with reckless abandon, arms outstretched around his neck, breathlessly sobbing.

“Thank you, master, thank you! I will be so good for you, master, I promise!”

The loud, broken display of gratitude drew one too many eyes, and Namid suddenly felt uncomfortable where they crouched beneath the shade. More than that, he was stricken with an uncontrollable pang of irritation. Where was _his_ thanks? He was the one to notice Iyumu and offer him help. If he hadn’t, then Ashelm never would have glanced the boy’s way. _It doesn’t matter who he thanks, only that he’s safe now,_ he told himself. His irritation was thrown out to the wind when those skinny arms curled around his own neck and pulled him into a shockingly fierce hug.

“Thank you, Namid! Thank you.”

Guilt over his irritation flooded Namid’s chest. He didn’t have any reason to be irritated at this poor, mistreated boy.

_I’m a spoiled noble’s pet and nothing more._

Less than a month in the real world couldn’t change who he was. He would always be what he was taught to be: pampered, spoiled and bratty. Perhaps Iyumu could teach him to be a little less nasty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our first chapter from Namid’s point of view! When I originally started writing this story, I was very indecisive about whether or not I wanted to tell it purely from Ashelm’s view. I think the beginning of the story had the most to gain from Ashelm’s side of things, but that Namid’s outlook was equally important. So here we are, chapter six dedicated to a sassy little porcupine!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did!


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